Scorched

The check came back but there weren't any beers on it.  I checked Mikey's to see if they were mixed, but he had his Long Island marked up.  Happy Hour for ol Tom, I guess.  The waitress smiled as she walked by.  I mouthed a thank you.  She was cute but we had stuff to do.

The Sun blinded me when we walked out.  Mikey said it was hot as shit.  My Led Zeppelin t-shirt clung to me, dousing me in sweat before I could turn on my Cherokee.  Mikey lit a cigarette after the truck bounced out onto the sunbaked highway.  I could never understand how he could pour hot smoke into his body when it was already so damn hot outside.  He reached for the A/C but I knocked his arm away.  Mikey deserved his self-inflicted cardiovascular immolation.