![]() I watched the builders day by day while I was visiting my wife. ![]() I don’t like to take the shortcut because of the BabyHatch. The money in my pocket was stuck together and my hair was stuck to my head. On the steps of the church I got above the bubbling froth for a minute or two. I was running through a riddle of low-fire shrapnel, dodging doorway to doorway, couldn’t see my feet through the hiss and steam. It was like the weather was coming up from the street instead of down from the sky. When the hail hit the ground, it was like throwing ice cubes into a fat fryer. The street had all the heat of the day, of the week, of the month, of the season. ![]() I was on my way home when the weather broke in two and the rain came down like ice-it was ice-hailstones the size of golf balls and hard as a ball of elastic. Folks drink more when there’s live music, and that’s a fact. Not supposed to drink on the streets, I know, but what the hell, after a man’s been working nine hours straight, serving shots when the bar’s quiet, playing piano when it gets busy. I was on my way home, maybe two in the morning, a cold bottle of beer heating up in my hand. My son said he’d come by in the car but he never came. I’d been playing piano in the bar I play in, and nobody wanted to leave, so I was later than I like to be. ![]() I was on my way home, the night hot and heavy, the way it gets here this time of year so that your skin is shiny and your shirt is never dry. ![]()
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