There's this piece of writing that I abandoned about twenty years ago about a girl named Camille who spent her summer vacation working at a food cart selling enchiladas at the county fair when she fell in love with a pimply-faced kid named Devon who drove around in the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. It wasn't a tragedy though it could have been. Both characters were too young to understand the love that they had discovered that summer - not to mention the heartbreak and squalor that would accompany its many derivatives later on in life - but they followed the urgency of the feelings in their bellies during those lurid August nights and they followed their hearts without fear. But enchilada girl and weinermobile boy were from opposite ends of the proverbial town. He lived with his aunt and uncle in a tepid shack and she lived with her family in the air conditioned confines of a designer neighbourhood. As the August nights dwindled, their desires for each other only grew. They could see that the circumstances that brought them together, the inextinguishable hunger of tourists and locals for processed foods served to them by young people wearing polyester shirts stamped with corporate logos in the relentless summer heat, would soon be gone and they'd be pulled back to their normal lives. This, they decided, was an injustice that they would not abide. Their love inspired them to devise an ingenious plan. They decided to break into a warehouse at night, steal the Weinermobile, make a run for the border, and get one of those drive-thru marriages in Reno or wherever. | image courtesy of @chloeearly