Nevermind the weather

“It’s such a nice day,” he says from the warmth of his sweater, all tucked into the shade.

The lunchtime patio workers wear truck stop sunglasses; tuck t-shirt guts into denim shorts. We play footsie under the table. The bubbles rise up, he lights another, blows menthol everywhere.

Words float over from the other table: “They think I’m the only one that gives a shit in this town.”

They, are wrong.