The first time he heard “fuck” was a Saturday, outside an empty office. Two men were throwing buckets of mud at the windows of the building. Their faces looked stuck in the rain or of someone discovering their milk had turned sour on them overnight.
His nose was runny from the overcast day. The pacific coast highway prevented the word from forming full sentences. He clutched cotton inside the pockets of his red hoodie, uncomfortably stared at the ocean across the street and waited for father’s guiding hand to lead him away and into familiar seat covers and a heater. (sb)
June 6, 2008...12:00 pm
forty-seven
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