One hundred and twenty seconds on the timer. It would be fast.
Outside my window I could see the neighbor’s kids drawing pictures on the sidewalk with pink and yellow chalk. The pictures were always the same, ugly flowers with awkward centers. A concrete garden that only got better when you watered it and washed it away.
Starting the timer, I stood there and watched the numbers roll down. Two, short, quick minutes.
The Hot Pocket was wonderful.