The Slow-Cooked Sentence

“Woosh” courtesy of Rowan Atkinson.

It was morning and the hip hop blasting from the tan Buick’s trunk was cheery as a bowl of sugar cereal:

The Buick yawned and the man reached deep into the trunk’s recesses to futz with the woofers or something. Music shook the windows of the sleepy house next door and a yellow school bus turned onto the street. Leaves as crunchy and brown as Frosted Flakes danced in its wake.