The little bald one with the glasses is the regular. I know him only as the milk truck man. He actually wears a blue collar. I like to think I belong in that class, despite my ripped t-shirt. We make our living off the same industry. His job occasionally overlapping mine. But that is all.
The milk truck man.
We exchange pleasantries before most of the world has even woken. "Good morning," and, "How are you today?"
This morning as I finished clean-up I felt like we shared a bond. Both of us the working class. Earning our keep at jobs we do well. Keeping our hours and making sure you get milk on your morning cheerios.
I grinned at him. As though, somehow, we knew a common secret. It not occurring to me that it was a connection noted only in my mind that particular AM. He probably only thought I was strangely cheerful at a time when usually I look forward to is going back to bed.
I leave our farm as the sun rises. My part of the process complete for now. He finishes loading the fruit of my labour and continues on, his day just beginning.
The milk truck man pulls up to another parlour as I crawl beneath the covers.
The feature where I let you read the ramblings of my past.