And Chill

We used to tie frogs and GI Joes to bottle rockets and shoot ‘Em behind my neighbors’ house; then there’s the crisp air first thing in the morning when I used to go hunting with my granddad upstate; and…” Fat Jonesy paused, resting his chin on his shovel handle. He pretended to think scratching a dirt creased finger against his temple.
MacGill continued to dig. His spade made a dull sound in the sandy soil. Fat Jonesy surveyed the crescent moon, watched how his partner’s muscles shone in the dim light of their flashlight, smelled the brine from the ocean.
“Yeah, my favorite memories are rockets, fresh air, and every time I’m with you,” Fat Jonesy said.
“You’re a romantic, that’s what you are. Now cut the gabbing and grab the feet, will ya.”
Together they hefted Jimmy Night Night into his grave and filled the hole. A pale sun was just peeking over the horizon as they climbed in their nondescript sedan to head home.
Fat Jonesy turned the ignition as MacGill texted their boss and waited for payment confirmation.
“How does breakfast at the diner sound? Or just coffee?” Fat Jonesy asked as they pulled away from their burial ground.
MacGill leaned over, kissed him softly, and then settled back into the upholstery to catch a few winks.
“Netflix and chill it is.” Fat Jonesy said as he drove through the back roads across a sleeping city back home.

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