Cankles and Ice Cream
No one's moving at pace. It's so hot, unbelievably hot. India-hot. The metallic click clack of the aluminum crutches is slower than ever. Kevin's hands are sliding off the foam covered grips which are disintegrating in his hands. He should've splashed out and rented a pair from the Fracture Clinic instead of borrowing Greg's. At the best of times, Greg's indelicate. These crutches have been marauded by a 270 pound hockey player with recurring ACL issues. Live and learn. If he can just make it into the grocery store he can hover near the frozen food aisle, the one with the open freezers lined up like cavernous coffins, damning them all to hell with their environmental scourging of the planet. Screw that, Kevin is hot. His ankle is swollen up three times it's regular size. Cankles, Kelly calls them. She's having a field day with this. Mr. I'm-So-Sporty takes a header while trying to play frisbee golf half in the can, three sheets to the wind, completel...