Too Good

Benji

Rick’s house looked best at twilight. The warm glow from the lights inside gave it a welcoming feel and the garage door, which was wide open like a gaping mouth, seemed a bit less daunting at this hour when the sky was a pale blue and dusted with the first couple of stars that were bright enough to twinkle in the dim light.

During the day the single story home was a bit rough around the edges. The peeling blue paint around the window casings and garage were obvious, as were all the oil stains on the old cracked driveway. One’s eye naturally pulled to the dead shrubs lining the driveway, and then to the grass, which reached halfway to my knees.

Rick didn’t care about aesthetics. Especially not over the last year. He had his hands full with mechanical jobs like the one he was working on right now.

He was bent over the hood of a ninety-one New Yorker—a hideous car even when in the best of conditions. The one his torso was lost under the hood of tonight was powder blue with a chrome