The day was damp but rainless. Window blinds were closed. The birds stayed in the trees and sang faint songs to a slothy world. The poor homeless snails baked like bread too long in the oven, hard as petrified wood. Backyard inflatable pools limped, wilted in the cloudless morning white sun, splashes once laughter mere evaporated memories, pined-for days of mis-told stories. The anthill is still, like an abandoned factory. His children peek through the window shades staring at the fire hydrant, wishing, longing that the cap would fail, water spewing from the underground reservoir like in a stereotypical movie where they would laugh with life-gushing eyes stomping and jumping around in the unbridled stream of water. Their faces were indeed long and blue like an early Picasso, forlorn – flipped over smiles and cratered eyes. The leaves drooped from the trees like wet toilet paper. The hydrangea were not bright red but a sun-faded pinkish color. The trees and flowers both looked to all the world as if they just wanted to lean over and take a quick nap. Or long if they could get away with it. He walked outside to sit in his wooden chair, drink his lemonade and look forward to the evening when the same ritual would be performed but with bourbon. It was 8am and the southern heat was strong with the world. He watched morning and evening for the return of his wife, who understandably left – many full moons ago. Being married to a functioning drunk like him wears on you like endless water drops on the forehead. They all, person and creature alike, looked forward to the friendlier days they once all shared.