by Legacy Gambill

Created on: April 06, 2009

Ante smugly nudged his brother. "See? They shove dough inside, let it bake, and voila flowerpot bread. And you thought there couldn't possibly be anything for vegetarians here."

Erst picked up the crumpled, but admittedly delicious, loaf of bread from its ceramic container. "One, the restaurant motto is Puttin' the Hog on the Log since 1936.' Two, it's southern style cooking, which means that even vegetables and salads involve meat. And three, you just kept babbling about flowerpots. Excuse me for thinking of shrubs." He glanced outside the window, "And just to bring balance to the world and your ego, you were wrong about the rain."

Ante followed his look, ducking his head to get a better angle. Low clouds had crept in, starting to mist the ground. Beneath the restaurant sign, their convertible sat with the top down, completely open. "Ugh. I don't suppose I could convince you that you'd just being materialistic? Resist the test."

"Not a chance; you're not ruining my upholstery because you were lazy. And wrong." Already prepared, Erst slid the car keys over on the table with one hand and swiped a second loaf of bread with the other. Ante sighed and wove his way carefully through the lunch crowd to the door. He ducked outside, and straightened gratefully, craning his neck back to look at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in the summer afternoon, which meant typical afternoon thunderstorms for this time of year.

Debating on whether Erst read signs better than he did or just assumed summer weather in Georgia would be consistent, Ante slid into the driver's seat, and raised the top. It was always a tricky maneuver, since he had to hop out before the convertible top hit him on the back of the neck, then lean in and turn off the car.

He stretched before heading back inside, giving the sky one last sweep. A flicker to his right caught his attention. He tried to track it and lost the movement in the clouds. A second flicker disappeared as quickly in the same direction.
It could have been a plane. Or, he admitted wryly to himself, I'm looking at the wrong plane. He turned slowly on his heel and focused.

The heavy clouds became a thin veil; since a brief stint in technical theatre he had always privately compared it to a scrim. Darting through and under and beyond the clouds, two spirits skipped, breaking through the surface briefly to get a bearing before ducking back and pressing onward. No question that there was purpose behind the movements they were headed in a definite

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