Nitro Mountain

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We were sitting in my truck in front of the diner she was working at. Greg, her boss, had everybody convinced he was a genius.

“He’s really smart,” Jennifer said. “You know what he told me yesterday while I was in the kitchen?” I rolled down the window and let in cold air. She took face powder from the glove box, bent the rearview at her face and dusted her nose. Headlights came flickering from way behind us. “You don’t even care,” she said.

“I care,” I said. “I’d like to kick his ass.” The headlights were getting closer.

“Yeah, right. Remember when you found that wounded squirrel?”

I turned to see a lifted Tacoma with an aluminum hound cage in the bed rush past. Barks and bays twisted around us and then away as the taillights took the next turn.

“It was a baby. It was lost. It found me.”

“You cried when it died.”

“That was a while ago,” I said.

“You’ve never even been hunting.”

“I fish.”

“Catch and release.”

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