SIR MATTIUS ELSTON WARDZALA

But God it was hot; the sun beat down heavily —at least there was a solution, AC and windows down at short intervals of speed as we drove in midday on 95; we had to stop at another light, so back our windows went up high.

You’d drum the wheel to the beat of the song you’d sing in awful melody; I actually thought it was funny, I giggled as your hand poked my non-muscular thighs and moved the car in zig zags from left to right as we zoomed down another Floridian road.

Daniel was on the stereo so you know I wasn’t going to complain, though the prolonged heat extended time like when you so badly had to pee in the backseat of your Mother’s new Sedan; you begin to think of the state of world you’re in, the poverty of the homeless family on the side of the road, begging for charity; the sad cry of a boy who just wants to get through to the next day —I wonder what would happen if I peed.

Sorry, I’m all out of money, I hope the best for you though, with smiles I say; I think I gave some money to some other man when you told me to help a guy in a wheelchair, the one with his legs cut off at a gas station; I don’t even think he was homeless, oh well, we did our good deeds for the week; I’m tired, when will this light turn green?

They always looked so bare but so full, with the random oyster bar and an authentic Mexican gem, beside a 3.50 per gallon Wawa gas station, and a group of boys straight out of the goonies, swaying with each other’s bodies as they all searched for a lake to release their bait.

I looked outside; we finally passed another lathy road with a poor asphalt finish, while I lay with my back curled in my seat, with a hoodie in Florida summer heat.