Dashing Through The Snow, In A Highly Dented Kia

He drove. No particular place to go. Keeping eyes open for someplace, any place, that might be open and selling snow shovels. He'd broken his on the peanut brittle that clogged his parking spot (since the Big Trailer Move, they were too poor to have a thing called a "driveway.") On Christmas, the big wide arteries were flowing free, all the little GM and Ford corpuscles having other places to congeal. She had to work; the pharmacy was the last chance for the desperate and the bored to get a fix of retail therapy.

It had been the week from hell, for both of them. He'd worked 3 PM to 4 AM
Monday, noon to 8:30 Tuesday, and 5 AM to 1 PM Wednesday, then gone to the family Christmas party Wednesday night. Even now, after a decent night's sleep, he still felt punchy, disconnected from reality. He lost his phone Monday night; he was chagrined at how completely he'd come to rely on the hated thing. When was garbage pickup, again? What was Dad's cel number? All gone. Bah. She hated the snow with an all consuming passion that was counterbalanced--just barely--by her love for him. His car was good n' stuck after not having been moved in a couple days. He'd taken her car Wednesday morning, since it was parked cockeyed in the badly plowed street; when she'd tried and failed to take his car, she fell down a few times and tearfully called her manager to come pick her up. For 24 hours, they thought the car keys were lost, until they turned up in the desk drawer. (Logical to her, beyond the limits of comprehension to him.) But the family gathering had washed away a lot of that slush. There was food, there were inappropriate jokes, there was a kitty on catnip crack, and there were way more gifts than the economy really called for. Working again Friday morning, which blew big time, but today was blank. And blank could be dealt with. Hey, looka that. Denny's is open! He had himself a Super Bird and a pecan pie float, and all was well. Merry Christmas to one and all. Well, most.