by Brad Rose

With the mattress tied to the roof of our car, the Dollar Store’s parking lot is hotter than fresh-laid asphalt. Kandy’s been in the store for ages. One row over, there’s a guy in a pickup, and he’s dancing on the flatbed—shouting something about how Jesus could’ve used a better lawyer. When she finally comes out, she smells like fresh air conditioning and looks like 5 million bucks. Like a middle school tween, she jumps and squeals, Sonny, Sonny, look at these passion-fruit paisley sheets! Someday, I might just marry that little woman.


Brad Rose's website is here.