The trees swell. And the clouds are fat like spoiled children. The day boils and my arm hangs listlessly out the window of the car. Oil stains shimmer. And a dog in the shadow of the house waits, still, tongue wet and glistening.
“Get out of the car, Junebug. I’m sorry.”
“Go to hell,” I whisper.
“You can’t sit there in this heat all day. You’ll fry. Come inside right now.”
But I sit, and sit. And watch the bruises blossom. Until the night follows. And the call of crickets makes it easier to breathe.