ride

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	The weekend plan is to refashion a home studio cold take begun in the Spring, but it’s too hot to noodle. 

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Edit the getup instead.

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Several shirts have met the same judgement in a sudden heat panic. The measures are rash, but spells are goading.
As usual, go too far.

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The liberation inspires. Air-up & take the alterations out for a first ride of the season.

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Head for familiar territory, downhill by default.

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	The Dog Days Mutt Strut is sold in the local happenings as a Sunday afternoon Rotary event with a dog parade & owner/dog lookalike contest at a riverfront park gazebo. 

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Cruise a scenic backway towards the water: 

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find infrastructure strictly intact

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as shifty conditions still sow caution.

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	Circle the gazebo. There’s no sign of any Rotarians.
A disappointed Great Dane sits at the feet of a sunhat looking around at the empty park from a picnic table.
Coast to a stop. The Mutt Strut is a bust.

Recall years ago now,
passing a smiling pit bull
leashed to a person
on a bench between a health food market & a liquor store.

Stopping at the dog, you said
Well, just look at that face!

Following the leash to the other end,
the person stared off, towards the market,
then up at you, frowning.

You almost clarified who you were referring to,
but just continued to the liquor store instead.

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	It smells like rain. The sky growls & the sunhat & Great Dane stand.
Walk the ride away from the Strut.
The leg home will be uphill.
Kickstand at a Summer Hours sandwich board. An air-conditioned open door sucks you in.

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	Beers nowadays are usually only earned after yard work, but humidity & the ride mediate a settlement.
The twenty-seater is empty. At one end, a stack of sports magazines topped with a spent WWII warship-themed advent calendar. At the other end, the tender, Dougie.
Behind the bar, framed mirrors with team logos & armed forces division insignias hang between two screens airing similar games.
Duty sneakers in cargo shorts walks in, draws a cell from a holster & takes a stool in the middle. Perched tactical shades straddle a widow's peak.
Dougie asks No bike patrol? 
The peak says Too hot, then speaks into the phone: mutt strut.
A synthetic lilt responds with a rundown.
Dougie changes one of the channels to a sports wrap-up.
The peak asks Where’s the pool?
Dougie reaches for a betting sheet on a clipboard hanging beneath the armed forces mirrors.
Notice there’s not one for Space Force.
A thin frame stops in the doorway. Outside light radiates a white muss. They ask Where’s a money machine? Been married forty-eight years to a bi-polar. Drives me crazy. 
Dougie says That’s twenty-four good ones.
The muss says I’ll be back.
The peak points up to a sports desk lioness-cut blazer & says my next ex. 
From the street, a series of car horn taps.
The peak squints towards the entrance.
The horn sounds again, longer, then a barking dog & someone yelling.
The peak stands, holsters the phone & walks to the doorway.
There's a far-off crunch of thunder.
The peak says It’s rollin' in, pulls down the tacticals & heads towards the Strut.
Dougie says The heat's relentless.