The BBQ

The colors of the buildings were brilliant and strange like summer oranges plucked, then left to rot on the grass. The buildings of the city shot straight up like syringes piercing the blue skin of the sky. The heat was unbearable, lazy, lounging in every corner. Even the shade could not escape.

From above we watched the grill battling with the sun, and the people, trying to hide inside with warm beers, slowly, slowly laugh. We were in the middle. In the middle you still receive smiles and plates of hot chicken with cool potato salad, but the currency of conversation is unnecessary. In the middle you find patterns in the ceiling and look at your phone constantly.

The paint peeled off the walls as the party went on. The phone changed only when it moved off the table and into my hand. The oranges sunk deeper, melting into the ground.