My grandma once told me speed bumps were what happens when lousy drunks fall asleep in the street and freeze up forever.
Call it that, call it a preternatural recognition between kindred sponges; either way I don’t regret waking him up.
“Alright down there?”
“Oh, yeah… Just inspecting the uh, sidewalk integrity.”
“This your place?”
“I’d ah, say it’s more theirs than it is mine.”
Dorothy Parker of his generation against the lamplit picket fence, one of those friendships.
Three endless blocks of beers and roadtrips and best man at each other’s weddings.
Rashid, I wish I’d seen you again.