Bits of my soul, I muse.
A man approaches. I motion him in. He opens the door, sits beside me, and shuts it. He cups his woolen sheathed hands together, purses his cracked lips, blows into them, and rubs. I twist the key, the engine cranks. No ignition. I give it another go. And another.
Finally.
The engine starts. He gets to talking. We're off.
He's providing counsel like, "You should go back," "You need to change [this], [that], [and the other]," "You ought to see if..."
His voice trails off—muffled by the drum of underinflated tires and the hum of wind blustering through my slightly rolled-down window.
We drive through a neighborhood that reminds me of my late grandmother's. A patch of grass and dirt hemmed in by roads flanked with homes.
I mumble, "Only larger..."
I've interrupted his monologue.
"Huh?" he says.
I ignore him.
I mumble, "Only larger..."
I've interrupted his monologue.
"Huh?" he says.
I ignore him.