Ancients

The days grow long. Everywhere you go, people, ordinary people, are drowning out the radio and the air conditioning with their shrill honking. They’re shopping for prom dresses and t-shirts. They’re texting from the patio. They’re illuminating menus with LEDs like bewildered aliens. This is boring me.

Your father fakes my accent, “I regret to inform you there has not been a summer of love in over fifty years.”

This is the summer of sweeping away our stodgy morality. This is the summer of manufactured optimism. This is paradise.