The Last Roadtrip

We're the only customers in a Chinese buffet in Montgomery, Alabama. It's 3PM on a Thursday and a hurricane's coming through. I listen to the sound of the staff rolling silverware as if it's wind chimes, angry yet gentle if I'm also listening to the shhh shh shh of the rain. Later, with my stomach full of corn syrup and crab rangoon, I'll dream of the ocean. High tide. Sand in my eyes. A purple flag indicates dangerous marine life, but I don't know what that means, exactly. I turn to you, a dark figure silhouetted in gold, and realize the sun is trapped halfway to its zenith. Like a golden token. Like the chipped left eye of the lucky cat at the entrance of the buffet waving hello, hello, hello, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.