"Poppies." My inner monologue decided to have some fun at my expense. She kept talking, but all I could hear was the Wicked Witch of the West, casting a spell in that scratchy green voice. Oh how bright and beautiful this technicolor world was. Her dress was white with green streaks, and she had a lily in her hair. The girl, I mean, not the Wicked Witch of the West, that would be weird.
The heat outside made me sleepy. It was thick and sluggish, the defining characteristic of this particular d y s t o p i a. such is the way of Carolina humidity: thick, wet, and apocalyptic. Wonder why southerners are lazy? Why we seem to drift through our summers on rocking chairs and lemonade? We live in a science fiction novel! Our existence is enervating. Our speech lackadaisical and peppered sloppily with diphthongs. We are a breed of camels. The creep of evolution has tweaked our anatomy so that 90% of our time is spent making the simple act of living a little more bearable. It's also the reason we can subside on R.C. Colas and Moon Pies (all about caloric density).
And she's gone.
Stupid day dreaming idiot, less wicked witch, more boyish charm!
Finding her in this morass of slow moving rednecks and pale hippos would be a challenge.