He heard the rumbling first. Distant, but growing louder. Worryingly so.
When the ground started to vibrate, he steadied himself against his sturdy mailbox.
Then came a tidal wave of dirty brown slush, crashing down onto his once pristine sidewalk. The same sidewalk he’d just spent the last three hours clearing.
The rage, suddenly overwhelming.
He threw his plastic shovel to the ground and marched over to the idling truck. He pounded his gloved fist against the rusted door, watching as the window lowered.
“Sorry about that,” the driver said, her bright green eyes twinkling.
“Anytime,” he blurted, already humiliated.
The Weekday One Hundred 