They walked through Denver; one carrying a beer, the other wearing blue sunglasses. The city was absent, dry.
“Why aren’t laundromats open in St. Louis on Sundays?”
“This ain’t St. Louis.”
They went down a street, found a couch, and sat.
“So what I’m saying is, there’s nothing out there, beyond us, I mean.”
“What about the laundromats?”
“The laundromats, in St. Louis?”
“Shit, you haven’t heard a word…”
A crowd passed the alley, unknowing and free. Red signs, cowboy boots. The air was sweet and thin, the light was flat.
“It’s just a weird mountain town.”
“With mass shootings.”