The wooden slats on the patio creak, and an iron chair shudders out from under the opposite side of the table. “What’ve you been doin? You’re lookin kinda big.”
Week three of working out, and Granddaddy is already noticing the results.
The beating of the sun and the walk from the car necessitates pause for survey.
June is hot. He doesn’t have the umbrella furrowed out. He’s just sitting there, slouched back. Shined black loafers.. Starched white polo tucked into flashy blue pants that swish with every weight shift. It needs more tucking… Did he try? Or, could that door just not quite make it shut? It’s certainly not a battle for which the zipper on his camo jacket is prepared. “Operation zippy" didn't make it very far north.
A few traits got passed on from this picture of livelihood sprawled out before you.
The poor eyesight. The follicular struggle. The devil may care persona.
One trait from the other side? Metabolism.
The iron stings your skin as you sit. It’s warm, but you adjust.
“Thanks, I’ve been working out. I’m trying pack on some of the ol’ el bees. It’s been hard work,” you finally respond.
He tilts his head, uncrosses the levers on his built in arm rest, and gestures over at you…
“Nooooo. Your face.”
