It was summer. The city cooked without breeze. My neighborhood had finally had enough and went out looking for the fiend who'd been lighting fireworks all throughout the nights.
At first it was fun. We met neighbors, toted beer. Kids brought squirt guns and flashlights. My boyfriend held my hand as we ran alleys, through the park, following the pops. But the men were serious.
When they cornered him, the bomber tossed firecrackers into the air, like confetti at a party. We blamed it on the heat, the men going sour like that. And we were tired, so tired. He was different, you could tell by his face. He had a lunchbox full of M80s and sticks, popsicle sticks, and some sad letters and photos. They started pushing because it was so hot. He moaned. Or giggled. I ran when I saw someone lift the brick.
No one talks about it now. Still, after a while, on that night, the neighborhood got to lighting fireworks. But only on that night.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
