You don’t dare touch that comb for the sake of a good pop in the mouth.
Everyone starts to zig zag and, like bumper cars bouncing off one another, to get shit done.
The wind starts notching up. Trash cans dump out greasy trays of limp cold french fries and ketchup smeared like spin-art paintings.
Another lightning crack streams across the northeast Ohio farmland midway sky.
No one says a word.