at a stoplight in Miami, we watch a woman, wrapped in one of those dresses that look more like a circus tent, but small, covering little of her thick legs, rise from a striped stained mattress, laid cock-eyed beneath a palm tree, leaving her lover lounging at the ready. squatting by the wall, hand pressed to its mudded contours, fingers splayed for support, she relieves herself in a puddle, consumed thirstily by the hard baked ground. done, she stands, stretches, then ambles back across the sand & scrub grass & settles once more atop her man.
the light turns green, horns behind us let us know its time to go & we look at each other, uncomfortable, blaming the sunlight for blink back tears. she, someone's daughter. he, someone's son.
hot sun cold on my skin as it filters through the window.
true story. about 8 years ago, it was mid-day and we were on our way to sales call. its one of those disturbing images that sticks with you.