Write four lines of prose about: the diner.
Spent most of the morning doing an oil and filter change on the car, so no farm work really got done today. Trying to be at peace with that.
It's a struggle.
We're heading back to the farmers market in Penticton tomorrow... but as customers only this time. We won't be going as vendors until our strawberries are ready.
Which is going to be much sooner than I care to think about at this stage.
As Terrence squeezed his way toward the far end of the row of men and women (mostly men) stuffing their faces with food they would surely soon regret consuming, an itch manifested between his shoulder blades. Someone was watching him.
There was hardly room to move forward, much less turn around, so he continued on and tried to ignore the waterfall of sweat that had been unleashed in his armpits. After a lifetime passed he reached the only available stool and sat on it while keeping his head down, all too aware that he had wedged himself into an inescapable corner.