Branson Anderson

Little Black Book

Though the morning air was cold it was, like a good apple, fresh, crisp, and pleasant. It gave Henry's arms goosebumps under his flannel sleeves but, also like a good apple, he didn't want to let the morning go to waste. The wind threatened to blow off his cap which he surrendered onto the gray, dusty dashboard where it would be safe; and now the wind tousled his dark hair that was getting too long and thick. This feeling he liked -- so long as his hair didn't whip his eyeballs.