dinner party

He felt the gas pedal as the foot of a woman one would graze at a dinner with the friend of your wife while her husband talked endlessly of a minor league baseball park you just had to visit if you ever made it down to that neck of the woods. There’s a lazy river by the outfield so you can spin all around and if you’re lucky you’ll catch a glimpse of the game. More likely get blasted by tall twenty dollar cans of budweiser and then melt the soles of your rubber flip flops during the twenty minute walk back to your car on asphalt hotter than anything the most pyrotechnic of children could dream of. Sounds great man I’ll go there next time I want to be out of the city while another mans big toe is stroking your wife. He hadn’t of course, just kept rubbing her dorsum until she finally made eye contact and said oh sorry I thought that was Roger, but nobody heard.