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So, picture this: me, green lil’ me, cruisin’ some dusty road. “Where’s the body?”—nah, scratch that, “Where’s the gal?” I’d be all nervous, ribbitin’ to myself, “Kermit, don’t screw this up!” Prolly spot her leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as heck. I’d roll up, all polite—Hi-ho, miss!—and she’d smirk, like, “What’s a frog want?” Ha! I’d die laughin’ inside.

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There’s a cafe on Maple too. It's small and sniffy. The folks here chat like bats. Hilarious and gross on the same note. I often drop in on lunch breaks. Lol, like some undercover superhero meeting.

Timothy Hazen