Tentacles and tendrils of smoke swayed slowly behind it.
Milk dreamed he was in Puerto Vallarta again but it wasn’t the same. The buildings were falling apart, prostate
cracked paint, health
crumbling. He walked down a long, winding road to get to the house. Cars would pull behind him on the sidewalk and stop, engines running. He knew they were considering killing him but eventually they drove on. The drivers had scarlet eyes and drove Chevy Bel Airs: blue, red and teal. Taillights blurred pink in the rain.
