The road to the lake is as flat as an ironing board. We rode his motorcycle to a ramshackle bar on the water. On the ride home the asphalt shimmered and I used the backrest. He left me on the bike to take a leak behind an abandoned farmhouse and then never called me again.
Now . . . this is what might have happened, and what I wish I’d written:
The road to the lake is as flat as an ironing board. We rode his motorcycle to the sand’s edge and drank beer from his saddlebag. On the ride home bugs caught in my hair and summer rushed past. He pulled off the highway to pee in the ditch and grasshoppers jumped over his boots.
I won't post the history of Flash-55 because I did that last week but if you can say it in 55 words please let the G-Man know.
Happy TGIF to y'all!!