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The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera stung after parting the right eye to magnified light vibrantly bursting from the Durango’s windshield. His closed eyes projected harshly bright red lit "floaters,” what Big Bro called strands of protein making up pupil tissue. He twists vascular arms causing them to excrete tiny beads that slowly grow then fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was noon and every car on the block blessed with a dark paint was hot enough to fry an egg and cook a steak on the hood. He felt like a cupcake coming to rise in an easy bake and everything inside the dark blue sedan he touched was on low broil. Thoughts of spending another hour parked without shade made Big Bro act as though he was standing in wind of a fire.

Lil Bro breathes deeply and takes in the sweet smell of evaporated diet soda lining cup holders.