late afternoon on tuesday, january fourth, just outside of juice-ton we have a problem. closed for @miaseongâ â„
The sun beams down in fat, golden rays, bathing them in light that Key perhaps didnât know he craved until he was suddenly covered in it. It feels far away at this time of year, almost like reaching for something that you canât quite grasp, but itâs present enough to have him fluttering his lashes and turning his face ever so lightly into it. Warmth. Even though it never really gets as frigid here as it did where he used to live, he craves the summer nonetheless. He feels like maybe he was built more for the heat than he ever was for the cold.
âYou know, for the price they charged me for this fuckinâ juice, I half-expect there to be some sort of prize at the bottom of the cup. Do you reckon Iâll find a tiny toy car or something?â The words just sort of flow out of him, and as has been his way lately, he doesnât bother with worrying about how any of it is going to come across. The question is clearly rhetorical as he takes his straw between his lips and gulps, quickly jumping to the next topic. âKinda wish Iâd spent New Years on the East Coast, back in New York. Bit late for that now, I suppose.â He canât help the way his mind goes to his son, and his heart sinks, downdowndown right into the depths of him. Itâs been months since he saw him, but he wasnât there anyway. He was in San Francisco with his mother.
