“What’s with that concrete trough?”
“They used to fill it during the winter and use it as an ice rink.”
“Doesn’t it melt?”
“No it doesn’t melt, Arizona boy. Come December, this place hardly ever breaks twenty degrees, let alone thirty-two.”
“Damn. How did you deal?”
“Bundle up. You get used to it. Ice on the sidewalks is tricky, but you learn.”
“God. I’ll take shorts and flipflops over long-johns any day.”
“Summers in Arizona aren’t exactly a picnic.”
“A/C baby. It’s how we do.”
“My dad taught me to ice-skate here. I still hate this place. Let’s go.”
I prefer shorts and t-shirt weather, definitely!
Ah, the good old days when things stayed frozen in the winter time. I looked out at our inland lake today, usually covered with ice fishing shanties by now, and it’s open water in parts… Places like AZ are good for vacas.
I don’t enjoy the freezing cold as much as I did when I was young and free of arthritis, but I know I would hate the smothering, relentless heat of a desert summer. The only escape is to stay inside in the AC. Not for me.
“My dad taught me to ice-skate here. I still hate this place. Let’s go.” – and that sentence is the real meat of your story. Well written.
straight to the point in the end. Great work.
I agree. It was a conversation up to the last lines. And there’s the story! Good job.