As a goof on a sweltering day in August ’73, my cousin Aldo tried to fry an egg on his brother Rocco’s beloved ’66 Mustang GT. It wasn’t hot enough; uncooked egg oozed over the Mustang’s candy-apple-red lacquer. Looked like a giant sick bird had crapped on the hood. When Rocco saw what his stupid brother had done, he started chasing him across the street toward Eastwood Park. A blue '70 Plymouth Duster came flying and hit Aldo before he made it to the other side. Later, the red-eyed driver swore to god he'd only had a beer or two.
Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto. His short prose has appeared in a number of journals.