A black Kobra has taken up residence across the street, a kid's bike with a camouflage seat, locked to the No Parking sign. It's been there at least two days. We didn't take notice at first. More kids are cycling about, and more than I've seen in recent summers. I don't know if it's because we have more kids locally, or because it's an IRL recreational activity they can share while maintaining distance, or if they've been influenced by stranger things.
I logged into the catbox and we talked of many things. The current American president has announced the creation of a statue-filled Museum of American Heroes, because he continues to fiddle for his base while his country burns. I suggested a contest to design the statue you know he's picturing there. Catboxers suggested the Trump Baby Balloon, a corpulent Nero, and an empty pedestal.
I proposed an accurately-proportioned neoclassical nude with the man examining a model of the Coronavirus in one hand whilst placing one foot on the neck of the Other.
After logging out I biked to the library to return borrowed items. As I accessed the return slot, I caught a snatch of conversation between a gray-haired man and a younger woman. These weathered souls perched on the rocks out front and smoked.
"You could be a waitress." Patios have opened. "You'd make good tips. I have a friend who did that at a strip bar. She didn't have to take off her clothes or nothing, she just served drinks and stuff. Made great tips. You just have to deal with bikers and horny jerkoffs."
"Is there another kind?" she asked.
"Someone touches you, they're out." He gestured like an umpire working the plate.
I was back on the road before I could hear her reply.