Rincon

Great meeting last night. Man, did I need to spend a couple hours just writing words that didn't count for anything, no pressure to be anything words, just words. I feel all refreshed.

Manning sat in his pickup on a hill overlooking Rincon watching as the Sunday people began emerging from their homes. Old women in somber dresses, prim hats perched on their gray curls, were paired with stopped old men in suits bought in more robust days. Middle aged women on their own wore a mix of dresses and slacks, the colors a bit subdued but not overly wild. Most of them were alone; no husbands and sleeping teenagers, Manning decided. The younger couples were brightest clad of all, wore jeans, pressed jeans but jeans and tight tops, their small children danced around their feet like flowers in the wind. Once they were all safe in their churches he slipped off the brake, depressed the clutch, and rolled silently through the tiny town and out to the coast road, his load of barnacle-encrusted shipwreck parts to be sunk carefully padded in the truck bed to silence any telltale rattles.

Hmmm, the plot thickens. Good luck moving in, Bob! Congrats on finding a place to live.
--Barbara