Amen
Dusk falls and the oaks shimmer. I’m in the bleachers watching pee-wee soccer. I think my kid just got hit in the face with the ball but who can tell. One thing they don’t tell you when you’re having unprotected intercourse with a waitress? The sound of your child’s fake-crying will be identical to the sound of any child fake-crying, anywhere in the world. I don’t care if it’s Mumbai.
I’m drinking gin from a Dasani bottle. The mother of the so-called goalie is carving up oranges with erotic zeal. The kids are just running around and not adhering to even the most basic rules of this unamerican sport.
And then I glimpse a squirrel stealing someone’s Butterfinger wrapper and running up a tree like: ahaha screw you I win! And the sun is now below the trees and the goalie’s mom suddenly looks like Diane Lane circa 1983 and I’m all: I am exactly where God meant me to be.
