Wearing a head wrap covering a perfectly full head of hair so there's little danger of his scalp getting sunburned and his brain's been fried ever since he was elected to public office so it's bewildering why Monty's prevents heat from escaping his body.
The dog jumps on the stroller licking Che reaching out to touch the slobbering furball of happiness.
I'm sure there's ordinances preventing such behavior on Tybee Island, because there's fines for most everything on this clump of sand, so Monty jerks his dog's head in the other direction.
It strikes me it was a purely political maneuver.
Embracing in the middle of the street in plain view of God, locals, tourists and feral cats we rush to say as much as possible in as little time as possible before he jogs away dragging the dog.
I have no idea what he said.
"We should have texted," I tell Che who's bathed in dog slobber, "so I could read what we talked about."
That's how communication happens these days.
The President told me so ... er ... I mean texted it from on high or some stupid shit like that.
If you text you don't have to talk.
It's one dimensional dialogue devoid of emotional investment while documenting what's said to detail denial of actual commitment.
A text is plausible deniability.
A text may not be FAKE NEWS but it's shallow communication.
There's no heart in a text.
Texts allow you to hide from investment in the other while pretending to converse thereby guaranteeing proof of ambiguity.
"Wha?" one of the girls asks at dinner staring at her phone having not heard her Mother's question.
Kids today eat with their phones.
Sarah repeats the question and the honor roll, already enrolled in Collegiate courses in High School mumbles, "I dunno. Let me Google it."
My Dad would have backhanded me with such force I would have triple summersaulted slamming into the wall before sliding lifeless into a houseplant had I not given my Mother full attention during dinner.
But that was then ... this is now.
"It's too much," I say to Che as we turn onto Alley 3 pausing at Back River.
We see a boat.
She's silent.
I'm silent.
The boat bobbles in the High Tide in a warm breeze blowing from the south.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" I ask out loud.
Sucking her bottle, Che is contemplative and doesn't answer.
"Soon," I say, turning the stroller towards her Mother and home ... wherever that is.
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