Rotting Inside Out

Black with white doors, a sedan sits in a near-empty downtown parking lot under shade of an elm tree. A steady cool breeze turned warm from the asphalt’s heat swoops through both open windows of the car. Two men sit in the front seats and feel the breeze across the sweat of their brows.

“What you go with?” said the man riding shotgun.

“Chicken burrito… salad,” said the man in the driver’s seat. The ignition key turned counterclockwise and the rumble of the engine faded.

“You finally did it.”

“I did it.”

“I don’t know why you want to do it. Nice to have a little something to throw around when you need it,” said the passenger.

“What are you talking about? Who wants to die from a heart attack if you can control it?”

“You think food will be the thing to kill you with all the shit we deal with?”

“All I’m saying is I can control what I put in my mouth.”

“That’s what she said,” said the grinning passenger.

“You’re a sick SOB, you know that.”

The passenger picked up a sweating white plastic cup and slurped its contents intensely. The two men took in the peaceful surroundings as the breeze offered relief under their swollen blue shirts. Cars and pedestrians traveled reasonably along the street. The passenger ravaged a steak burrito with overflowing cheese like a jackal as the driver struggled to steady cubes of chicken and swords of…