The flower opens. Others know what the flower is called, but the flower pays no mind. It's purpose is almost done. Just a few days of blooming, and it will fall to the ground. Wasted. Used. Finished. No one will watch for more than a few seconds at a time. The story is told in flashes. To watch it all in real time would be unbearable.

"The flowers are nice this year," she says.

"We got a lot of rain," he says. "They better be nice."

The coffee is very bitter this morning. Is the real taste in the fresh grinding of the beans? Is it in the water? Or is the bitterness from last night?

"I could use a touch of milk," she says.

"Couldn't we all?"

The clouds coalesce and show signs of pregnancy. The smell of it is in the air. Everything is dusty and dry. Rain has been away for a few weeks. People waiting for the rain don't wash their cars. The roads are coated in mostly invisible dust and grime. The first rain in a while is like a rinse cycle. If there's not enough the first time, it's like spitting into a sandbox. The dry cake gets pitted by rain bullets, but doesn't go anywhere. Nothing gets clean. The dirt just gets more visible.

"What's this?" she asks, pointing to a mark on his chest.

"That's you."

Before now, everything is worked out in a series of conversations. Arguments without violence. Stern talking and occasional blasts of laughter. It seems so long ago, before now. Like whatever started all of this has been changed around, switched and refinished. But never finished. Never solved. The snake keeps coming around, looking for the mice he's already eaten.

"When are you coming back?"

"When I'm done."

It's been said exercise clears the mind. Physical exhaustion makes everything else fall into the background. The mind is muted and mumbling. Sweat and heavy breathing louder with the body. Pain and euphoria circle muscles like a hawk on a speedball.

Sitting around and waiting, this breeds discontent. All that happens is the spinning of the mind. The body doesn't move, it settles. The mind springs into action and tries to escape its case. You can't shut up the mind, but you can distract it for a while.

"How much did you drink tonight?" he asks through his hands, disguising the whiskey on his own breath.

"Not enough."

The winter grass is dying, beat into submission by the hot summer sun. The rejuvenating waters are pushed away by the heat of the city. Everything settles closer to the ground. Crawling along, never stopping long enough to bake into the asphalt. Enough to breathe, not enough to relieve.

Soon, everyone will be rewarded for their patience. The floodgates will open. Tickets will be pre-sold on Fandango. Seats will be held for those still in the lobby buying popcorn and the big, big drink. Late stragglers must sit in the front or on the sides. They will feel a bit cheated, their necks a bit cramped, but they'll enjoy the experience nonetheless.

The answers will inform, but satisfaction is never full. There are always more questions than answers. More soul searching than souls found. Many will interpret in a way others find wrong. Others will not find any answers at all. Misery is a hard thing to cure. No one can take the feeling away from you. They can only remind you of the snake in the grass.

"What are we doing?"

"I thought you knew."

If you cannot complete your quest, there are none alive who can finish it for you.

Matt Worley found something shiny, but it turned out to be a well worn 1968 quarter. You can't buy nothin' for a quarter these days.