The milkman sat on the back of his truck and wiped his brow. He wouldn’t have called himself that though. He drove a truck, and delivered milk. To restaurants. No lonely housewives pulling him inside moments after their husbands left for the office.
In elementary school, he’d wanted to be an Indian when he grew up, but the teacher said that was impossible. And that the proper term was Native Americans.
A bike ran a red and the driver reacted just a little too slow. The sound was hollow, and he knew that bothered him more than it should have.