The Rolling Thunder trips over a crack in the sidewalk and stumbles; his skateboard goes flying right into M.P.’s ankles.
The wheels spin.
Thunder lays sprawled on the pavement, ragdoll-style.
We won’t catalog the exact number of bruises just incurred.
Both parties will feel the evidence of this encounter in the morning.
They follow the choreography, dusting themselves off and clucking apologetically.
M.P. isn’t sure what comes next.
Thunder still isn’t sure what came first.
This is going to be interesting.
“You...okay?”
“Me? Oh, fine, fine...Um. I’m...sorry?”
“Yeah. No, it’s... don’t worry about it. Your board-”
“I got it.”
Weight shifts.
This is almost painful.
“Well...sorry again. I’m gonna...”
“Yeah. Of course. No problem.”
Awkward.
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