I was walking down a country road. Dry yellow grass hissed on both sides of that road. Heat gave the scene of trees and farms a vibrating cinnamon hue.
--Came upon a fellow playing blues harmonica on his porch, a glass of lemonade at his feet, red threads apparent in his overalls.
"Sir, have you seen my fate?" I asked.
He paused his playing, wiped his mouth with a flannel sleeve. Men who wear flannel in the heat are to be respected, I have learned.
"It's right behind you," he said. I turned and look. Nothing.
"Oh! It moved," he said. "It's up ahead."
I looked up ahead. Nothing.
"Fate's like that," the man said. "Always slipping past you. His brown eyes were red-rimmed. "You thirsty?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Well, then, it seems your fate, which is here, is to drink lemonade on this porch with me. Come up."
"Thank you, sir," I said. Fate's like that.
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