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The neon sign atop the Nevada State Bank across the street is flashing the time, then the temperature. 2:59. 101. 2:59. 101. 3:00. 101. A few hours before dawn and still over a hundred degrees. Yeah, but it’s a dry heat. As if that matters. As if no one ever died from triple digits, no two year old strapped into the back seat of an SUV while his mother shops for one last pair of bargain-priced shoes.
It’s the end of a miserable week, a lousy month. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does. Yet always, just down the block, there’s Hope leaning against a lamp post, a cigarette dangling from her lips, smoke veiling her face, skirt hiked up with promise.
So, I say good bye to any thought of sleep, lock the door behind…
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