Summertime

That's when he looked up at me, under these muslin lights on the back porch after the smoke stung his eyes; he said "You should read the New Yorker, that is, if you want to know what's going on, everyone I know reads the New Yorker. I particularly like the writings of Nick Hornby as well...I mean, if you're looking to read".
It was a very hot and sweaty July evening, the kind of evening where the boxer briefs cling and the gnats can't seem to stay out of ones nostrils, the only thing happening this night, is a bottle of wine a hand rolled cigarette and the epiphany that I never want to say anything remotely close to what he just said.