Goddamn hot, fucking hot shit. I forgot how hot the sun is in Houston. I caught him at Thelma’s BBQ during lunch yesterday. Impala (1966), cherry coated paint and woodgrain, some classic rims, none of that spinny Sprewell shit, some Gucci (Burberry?) seats, all topped off with enough gloss to wax down the moon. Motherfucker pulls up just burning. I could feel the chopped beef evaporate off of my face when he walked in the room; the jukebox melted into the ground – a blaze for the dead Roberta Flack jam still echoing over the tiny one-room BBQ joint. I walked outside to wipe down my brow and it started raining cold in the dark. Steam rolled over the factory tops for minutes, for seconds, and until the sun was fed, the sky rained wet confetti on a burnt clump of pavement, just east of downtown.