cotton candy, sugar canes, trains that clack against your head
“You’re helping him.” Joshua tells Tommy. He adds leaves on a tree, black crayon blended with an ugly green marker. Tommy nods. Agrees. “I’m helping him.” There’s a lull in the conversation. Tommy’s doodles are in pen, now. Crushed soda cans and an old, old cat. A wilting flower. “You like my dad, don’t you?”
lean in for a big kiss (go play your video games)
Black Mesa is a small town, and there’s never been much of a need for names, so the arcade’s actual name – if it ever had one – is entirely unknown to the kids. Including the Friday regulars, who always go straight to Mortal Kombat in the corner, one at a time, and bicker about if whoever got there first should let the other kid even touch the joysticks.