They pulled into a choice spot at the drive-in, central but with easy egress for when the movie ended and a mad dash began to empty the lot.
“Let them wait in line to go home,” said Ray. “What’s the hurry, baby?”
It was summer, they were twenty and it was the weekend. She couldn’t disagree. There was no hurry. How could she know about time at an age when life stretches ahead like an endless highway, when wasted moments are always replaced by a new supply of moments to be wasted?
Momma dragged her to the nursing home a week ago to visit great Uncle Otto.
“Vicky, you never know when it might be the last time. He’s 93, honey. I know he must be awful lonely.”
“I know, I know, he’s so sweet, it’s just,”
“Just what?”
“It smells kinda bad Momma. And it makes me sad.”
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