just watched laura and her band play on the pier at glensheen. was nice. felt a bit out of place. thought about how this time last year i was hauling my ass across the country. thought about a lot of things as i watched the waves roll in and the moon rise up over the big lake.
thought about the old man who offered me a banana peel at the beach this morning.
“would you like a banana peel,” he asked.
“no thank you, sir,” i said.
“but how often does someone offer you a banana peel,” he asked.
“you know, not often,” i said. “i think it’s one of those things i could pretty easily get on my own should i want one.”
“you got that right, sweetheart,” he said. “stay young forever.”
“yes, sir,” i said.
now i drink a whiskey on the rocks and listen to some other old men play that song with the chorus that goes “love was made for me and you.” me and who? love feels like a trick lately. a cruel joke. something both abundant and sparse. love might have been made for me and you, but what about good love? is there such thing? was good love made for me and you?
j- and i text about my youth. i tell her i miss her and wish she was here. “but i am with you,” she says.
“yea,” i say. “always in my heart.”
“yea… and at the brewery in lakeside,” she says.
i forgot i shared my location with her before i left new york. it feels good knowing she can check in on me, see where i am. i like that. something about it makes me feel safe.
we text some more about my youth, about my prerogative.
she calls me baby and i call her boo.
i’ll drive to super one after this and get supplies to clean the drain in the bathroom of my new apartment, which is clogged in a way i’ve never experienced for a drain before.
i think to ask my landlord to do it, but figure i’ll take it on. i’d rather not wait for him. that, and i trust myself to do a better job.
the whiskey softens the edge on my mood. it’s been a moody day and i’ve had a hard time accepting it.
the woman next to me describes her pinot as like nothing she’s ever had before. she compares its profile to fresh denim. “not leather,” she tells the bartender. it makes me curious, but not curious enough.
i’ve been wondering tonight, do i want to hate it here, or do i want to love it here? neither, i think.
i want to feel free. i want to be free.
Words 