FairWriter

Recycle By Tamara Peachy Crushing the can and tossing it into my recycling pile was a mundane task. Like most men, I wasn’t a good housekeeper. I had no motivation to go to the Recycling Center that afternoon. Unfortunately, my back porch was avalanching in empty cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and foul-smelling milk cartons. I had no clue this hated chore would initiate my first conversation with the most attractive female in Ashland, Kentucky. My rusty Ford pickup was on its last leg. I wondered if the mounds of garbage resting in the truck bed would be too much for my dying vehicle. It sputtered and snarled at me, but it survived another trip. To open my driver-side door, I had to thrust all my body weight against the inside. The door didn’t give way until my fourth attempt. My shoulder was now accustomed to this maneuver and was immune to the pain. Before I had time to lift the first box out of my truck bed, I heard glass shattering in the distance. I left the boxes in my truck and f