Fiction, Writing

A Half Hour into My day on a Thursday Morning on a Florida Highway

It’s 9:20 in the morning. At this point I have been awake for 19 minutes. I am in the car, listening to country music, and I have already broken a sweat. Its 87 degrees outside. Its 9:20 in the morning.
Katie sings along quietly in the seat next to me. She is wearing a maroon tank top that belongs me. A maroon tank top that on me is as tight as skin, but sits loosely on her bony shoulders and bunches around her skinny waist. its dark red and her white skin come together almost violently. But she is humming. In her teal rimmed ray ban wayfarers, her humming gets louder.
Its now 9:26 and Katie changes the channel on the tuner. The reporter inside the box tells that we should expect a high of 93 degrees, with a heat index of 110. Katie turns to me and says “Fuck.”. it’s 89 degrees outside now, its 9:26 in the morning.
Katie starts to sing along to She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy. She stops her serenading to tell me that she must’ve heard this song a thousand times. At graduation, prom, senior night, etc. I look out the window at the truck full of watermelons to my right.
I think “how ironic”. Its 9:28 in the morning. I’m in a 2001 Chevy Blazer. Its bright red and makes loud noises when you open and close the driver door. Katie, who yesterday made me listen to the soundtrack to Pirates is still crooning that She’s even kind of crazy ‘bout my farmer’s tan, I’m dreaming of watermelons and its 91 degrees outside. Its 9:28 in the morning.