Ninety-two degrees in the shade – but there was no shade. Traffic was at a standstill and the A/C was busted. Every time the temperature gauge hit the midpoint, Dale had to turn on the car’s heater. Every time he turned on the heater, Dale thought of his wife, Allie, reading those eight dollar magazines she thought he didn’t know she bought every damn week and watching television every damn day instead of looking for a job. It wasn’t even good television: sitcoms from her childhood and exploitative ‘talk’ shows, when just a few months ago she used to watch the news or documentaries that he’d at least be interested in discussing with her.
Cars began to ease forward. Dale waited until the vehicle ahead of him was almost four car lengths ahead before hitting the gas; nothing irritated him more than rolling forward five feet and having to stop again.
Allie’s face appeared in his mind, skin broken out from the chips and frozen pizzas she’d taken to eating all of the time, chins adding up almost weekly since she rarely hauled her ass off the couch any more except to get more chips and frozen pizza, or chips and soda, or once, appallingly, chips and apple butter.
Okay…so one thing pissed him off more.
