It was Wednesday morning and had rained all of Tuesday. Swirling black clouds buried the reddish mid-morning sun, murmured gloomily, and wept. The tears splattered and slithered down the windshield of a colorless car parked in a field. In the front seat a shadowy figure shifted, slinging one arm across the wheel and another over the headrest. One foot rested against a musty cardboard box; the other kicked an empty Starbucks cup to the floor.
He had bought his usual mint mocha Frappucino yesterday, using money from his only remaining paycheck. His last job had been like the coffee: full of promise that had seeped away. The coffee had been frosty, smooth, and creamy, but as he sipped, hour by hour, the whipped cream dissolved; the coffee grounds sank to the bottom; the liquid grew tepid. Now the cup rolled onto the carpet, barren. All that remained was a flavorful memory—and a few chunky drops of mint mocha.
The cardboard box at his feet was stuffed with grungy tshirts and graying jeans. Peeking out of the rags were three objects: a baseball bat, skateboard, and guitar.
In fourth grade he hit two home runs in one game. In seventh grade he won several local skateboarding competitions. Junior year he joined a band and got a few gigs. But all three pursuits had bored him in time, so he had quit each. Even so, his memories of success lingered.
Grumbling sleepily, he leaned over, scooped up the cup, and dropped it into a cup holder. “Maybe I’ll try something new next time,” he mused, stretching. Facing the windshield, he saw that the detour sign he’d parked in front of had been removed. The main road was clear. The rain had slowed to drizzle; the sun was reborn from the clouds.