So my wife suggests we should go miniature golfing in the heart of tourist street in Orlando, International Drive. Since we live in Minneola, FL, that is not to far a drive for us, and I'm game.
He closed the car door harder than expected. Then he just stared at his reflection in the shine of the black Cadillac. The lamp of the parking lot provided ample glow for him to make out the contours of the wrinkles just below his sullen eyes, bloodshot and sunken. His hair was ruffled enough to appear a disorganized organization of dark brown threads, curly and not unpleasant. He hated the sight of it, though. Always. There was no assortment that brought him satisfaction, so he had committed himself to giving them their own leeway. There was a speck of something on the end of his nimble nose. He flicked it away and then turned toward the diner.
You’ve been here before, your friend holding an innocent captive behind the rusted barrel of a silver Glock. It’s his father’s. Faint rings of white powder crust around his nostrils like crystalized sugar, and his shoulders sag. It takes all his energy to lift his right arm, the pistol grabbing gravity like a bell weight. But he stands firm, the clerk mesmerized by those glazed eyes.