Puddles

I sit in Wendy's watching the rain. It is still light and I've just finished food shopping at Walmart. I have a cup of coffee and fries in front of me. I'm reading last Sunday's Times, an article on Melissa McCarthy. Before the puddles get too deep, I'll head home, put the food away, sweep the floor, check my email, relax until the NBA finals come on at 9.
I just downsized my cable plan to save money. Lots of channels I never watched are gone. Someone found my cell phone, which I had lost the day before. I'm told I am eligible for an upgrade. If I get an expensive one I know I'll lose it. I had to pay Staples $20 to eliminate a website that blocked my email.
I don't finish the McCarthy article. Instead, I fantasize about my acceptance speech after winning an Oscar for best original screenplay. I will be concise, witty, sharp. Beautiful actresses will smile and applaud. Everyone will want me to sit with them at the Governor's Ball afterward. I will choose Rooney Mara, who I find strangely attractive. Our eyes will meet, sending secret messages. I will leave New Jersey for Hollywood.
Two guys in the next booth are speaking loudly in Spanish. I snap out of it, toss my garbage away, gather my newspaper and umbrella and head back out into the storm. At least I can see the puddles before they trap me.