Forest whistles swollen with the preshow anticipations of a beloved band’s third final reunion tour. Deadheaded limbs snap in the distance. Warning, tornado watch in effect, watch out for future warnings.
Bill clocked out of the system and back into his life. They begged him to stay with the faint cling of day old Saran Wrap.
“It is not safe to drive, Bill, and even less safe at home.” They begged him to stay.
“I know, I know,” agreed Bill with the empty promise of rash decision, “But I just can’t.” The crowded disappointment fell into despair. “I have to go home,” he insisted, “I’ve got cats.”
*******
Wait, what!? He flips back past the tucked-in title, is this even the same piece of prose? He settled for a tale of roadside attractions and hotdog stands, not windy kitties and a case of the feels. Seems one and the same, identical type, structure and form, the material of the page cut from the same cloth but the voice pouring through as untethered as his downstairs neighbor, but at least he can beat himself at chess and believe it. He flips a bit deeper to suspend further disbelief...