We didn't plan it. That's the thing about living five minutes from a place — you stop planning and start just going.
Caleb said he wanted to get out of the garage for a few hours. Crank heard the word walk and that was that. We were halfway up 268 before either of us said another word.
The Filling Station was already humming when we got there. Not loud, just — present. Music coming from somewhere, a few people on the patio with that same look everyone gets on a Saturday afternoon when they've decided, collectively, that nothing pressing is going to happen for a while.
We found a spot outside. Crank walked a slow circle, picked his patch of shade, and that was his whole day decided. I don't think he moved again for two hours.
I ordered the Bianca. Three cheese, banana peppers, arugula on top. Caleb looked at the menu like it had said something to offend him, then ordered a beer and let it go.
The pizza came out with char on the crust and the cheese still pulling. The peppers had gone soft and a little sweet in the oven. The arugula was fresh, piled on top like an afterthought that turned out to be the whole point.
Caleb ate three slices without commenting, which is how I know he liked it.
He was sneaking looks at his phone between songs — qualifying was running somewhere up in Pennsylvania — and I watched him do it without saying anything. The music was good. The beer was cold. Crank was a lump of yellow fur under the table.
At some point the afternoon just settled. You know the feeling. Nothing resolved, nothing decided, just the particular quiet of a Saturday that went exactly right without anyone trying.
We walked home the same way we came. Crank lagged the whole way back, sleeping on his feet.