I would be remiss, on this fine spring day, if I didn’t slide on over, as we like to say on the bus.
Come sit by me.
Spring! It’s 70 degrees here in Minneapolis, and the good people of the Great State of Minnesota have gone, to judge by appearances, insane. Arms! Legs! People without hats! The woman in front of us: Didn’t know that color existed outside a block of cream cheese, did you? But there she is, in all her pale, warm-weather glory, sporting nothing on top but a sprinkling of freckles and a strapless shirt that would’ve killed her just a month or two ago.
She didn’t get those tattoos to keep them hidden!
But never mind her. Look over there, on the sidewalk, where a fresh crop of unlined, smooth-limbed citizens has sprouted. The future of America, unfettered by gainful employment, travels in boisterous, eager groups.
The guy in the tank top, the one with his pants belted at the top of his thighs, has eyes only for one girl.
Even from here, it’s obvious.
He wants her, and she doesn’t care. She toys with him, playfully hits him across the top of his head; he reaches for her, but with his waistline just inches above his knees, he lacks true mobility. She dances ahead of him, taunting. Come and get me! Come and get me!
The young man clutches his pants with his left hand, hobbles after her, laughing, his right hand raised in petition. Slow down! Let me touch you!
Winter is gone.