In Stuart. Once again in the car, waiting, this time with a panting dog slobbering all over my pants. 85 degrees, our spring. So much less room in this heat for dreamy musings about poets and cigarettes and pricey Champagne in flutes, the men in tuxes looking like George Peppard and the women in Givenchy LBDs like, who else? The sublime Miss Audrey Hepburn.  

In this heat, there is so much non-potential. Or conversely, so much potential for inertia and stupor. I've got sunscreen on. Exactly.

I'll  settle for a 7/11 Slushee.