Milo turned the key in the ignition and was soothed by soft, Bavarian purring. While his left hand absently adjusted the visor, which labored under the weight of remote garage door opener, radar detector, Ray-Bans and a fat clip of receipts, his right hand punched a CD home into the player: Seven Long Years, the latest release by the Ideal Insomniacs, Milo's favorite band. He saluted the attendant and coasted down the exit ramp, rolling his tires over a length of black cable. Ten blocks to the highway, he thought, three miles to the bridge and I'm home free. Still bright day filled the space vacated by the ascending metal door, the confused mass of light slowly resolving itself into buildings and the street before him. Milo reached for his sunglasses and nosed out into traffic.
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Go back to my home page.
© 1991 David Cohen
channels and nothing's on.