A cold May tells me it’ll be a hot August, he said. The cicadas are gonna be out, singing their songs, I hum along too, the old man told his wife. She smiled and shook her head. The peppers and tomatoes should be coming up late June and into July. Nothing better than a tomato off the vine, he lit a cigarette. They don’t even need salt; have a good flavor on their own. Yeah, it should be a good summer.
The car pulled into the driveway around two in the morning. It’s lights were off, radio turned down, muffler intact. Didn’t make a sound, ‘cept for the tires rolling over the gravel. The old man and his wife didn’t hear a thing, not even the front door being broken into.
The burglars successfully picked the lock. Their muddy boots left a trail on the white carpet. They had guns cocked and ready to fire. The old man thought he heard something in the front of the house. Honey, he said to his wife. Honey, stay right here. She asked what it was and he held his finger to his mouth. Shhh, he blew air.
They came down the hallway while the old man pulled his shot gun from under his bed. He’d always dreamed that it would go down this way. Now was his chance.
He softly walked over to the doorway of their bedroom. The old man could hear the two men walking towards him in the dark. He could make out the outlines of their bodies. They wore masks.
And then, without hesitation the old man fired at both of them; hitting one in the chest and the other in the back; they moaned and bled all over the carpet as he dialed 911.
The tomatoes and peppers were late coming in that summer. He watered and tended to them. They grew and grew; big plants, green and lovely. He was proud. It was a good summer.