Bobblehead Night

It was nine to five in the bottom of the eighth, and it was looking like no one would get out alive. The gibbous moon hung over the river like a piece of rotten fruit. If there were to be fireworks, no one was waiting around for them.

“So, what am I supposed to do with this thing?” she asked.
“I think it’s intended to be a keepsake,” he said.
“Oh.”

The spot on his neck where the hornet had stung was inflamed, itching and burning intensely at the same time. This hadn’t happened since he was a kid, when he went poking around at their nests. His mother would make a poultice of lemon juice and baking soda to put on the bite. At first the lemon made it worse, but then it soothed.

“How far away did we park?” she asked.
“You were there,” he said, “don’t you remember?”
She said, “You know I’m terrible at geography.”

Even though it was dark, it was still very hot, and swarms of bugs swirled around the lights, like they were a secret source of nourishment.

“Are you saying you’re ready to go?”
“Well, I don’t see this getting any better, do you?”

As they walked down the ramp, he said, “I still can’t believe I got stung by a wasp.”
From somewhere inside, they heard what sounded like firecrackers.

“Don’t look at me,” she said, “this was your idea.”