Carpe
"A pack of American Spirits, too."
"What color?"
"Yellow. No. Not that yellow. The other yellow."
He palmed over an excessively folded twenty. The counter guy gave him some change.
"Seize the day!" the cashier exclaimed as Ted pushed open the door to the lot.
Seize the day? What the fuck does that mean? Seize? What is "seize"? How does someone "seize" anything let alone a day?
He stopped in the middle of the parking lot and pulled out his phone. He typed.
Fucking smartphones. They're like women. Can't live with 'em, can't live without.
He liked definition number 2: take (an opportunity or initiative) eagerly and decisively: he seized his chance to attack as Delaney hesitated.
His dad used to tell him (when the man was sober) that life gave you three choices: fail and wallow in it, coast and be unfulfilled, or swing for the fences and maybe—MAYBE—do something notable.
Dad seemed to be OK with the first.
Swing for the fences. Seize the day.
Ted walked over to his beat-up Subaru and stood by the trunk. He cracked the pack and pulled out one sweet deathstick. He tossed the rest of the pack into the receptacle. He lit the cigarette and breathed in the nicotine.
He looked around the morning traffic. He noticed the pedestrians walking to work. Across the street was a coffee shop. Independent. Odd name.
And there she was. Young. Blonde. Made up. Taking a selfie (or several given how long she was posing). No mask.
No fucking mask? There's a goddamned pandemic raging and she has no mask on inside a coffee shop?
Swing for the fences. Seize the day.
Ted finished his butt, flicked it away, and opened his trunk. Inside on a navy blue towel was an AR-15, fully loaded. It had never been fired.
