His fingers were fumbling for a chip. At the bottom of the bag somewhere there must be one, and when he looked down—snow peas. Not even a bag, but a colander. This was something he’d seen on a cooking channel. Who would want to be the audience for a cooking channel? It was 107 degrees, and he hadn’t finished his beer. Something felt not right. He wiped his forehead, and rubber stuck to his skin—his gardening glove. He was in the kitchen with gloves? Were his boots on too?

Love became clear: it was as uncomplicated as his open hand. Come closer, I still have so much to share. His head pushed through and broke the screen from the porch door. Outside, the afternoon blazed and shrugged its shoulders.

Bio: Laton Carter