The Black Angels - "Tired Eyes"

His face looked like a living insult, and she was dressed like a door off its hinges. The whole day was slightly sweaty, kind of chafing, whatever day that was. 200, or thereabouts. He got a call on his flip phone. He turned into the shoulder-height weeds and lowered his voice, a family loped past and into the store with frozen lunch and fireworks emanating from their heads in big cushy thought bubbles. He finished his phone call and hung up, his body blushing, if a carrot with carrot eyes can even blush. "That's rude," she said, her hair with no strand the same shade. "How is that rude?" "It's like you're keeping something from me." "It's a personal phone call, why do you want to hear my personal phone call?"

The family came out, and they may have changed clothes while in there, everything seemed to flap against them as they walked.

"I don't want to hear it. I just don't want you to hide it." A church sat hot and empty not far off.

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