hate a fucking chartreuse

Izzy hates the Spring. He hates how everyone winds up waltzing around with wonder-filled faces, gazing out at the world like it’s suddenly Better just because the sun’s in a slightly different place. He hates how much longer it takes to park the motorcycle when bougie little scooters and e-bikes take up all the spots, how quickly it gets too warm to wear any decent looking jacket without sweating to death, and he especially hates how the color palette of everything from looming adverts to flowerbeds is attacked by a jubilant army of tacky pastels keen on pissing him off personally: all pinks and purples and chartreuse. Izzy hates a fucking chartreuse.

In which a year has passed, Stede still has a pitbull named Venny, Ed still has a terrier named Cat, Izzy Hands is a begrudging babysitter, and it's yet another lovely spring day in Washington Square Park for talking shit with hot strangers.