Fridays are beach bonfires and a six-pack of BudLight tall boys. Fridays are long, slow drinks of sunshine and wafts of barbecue, jean shorts and lazy sessions of porch-smoking. Fridays are bike rides and lifetime movies playing in the background while figuring out what outfit to rock.
Today is a bleak cloudy sky, a roar of traffic whipping around the s-curves of I-5.
Today is an wise old blue comforter drenched in rain water left out on the patio last night, deflated and threatening to mold right there on the cement.
Today is a strange, strange Friday.
Fridays laugh and run.
Today snarls
His wrinkled face cringes and he spits out a senile warning: "don't come out here."
Fridays are scrambled eggs and salsa and orange juice.
Today is branflake, fiber-pumped cereal.
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