“Please just fit,” I plead with the groceries as I ironically try to sandwich a loaf of bread between two bottles of milk. 

I really should have put the back seats down before I went into the store - now, with my arms weighed down by fifty pounds of bottles and breads and frozens, this unappetizing new provision seems like it’ll be the best I can manage. 

I’m definitely not getting anything but crumbs out of this loaf. I guess it’s as good a time as ever to ask Tia Maria for that bread pudding recipe.

I can’t believe I haven’t bought her Mother’s Day present yet, normally I have that picked out by New Year.

This year - these two decade-long months that we call 2024 - have been way too hectic.

I slam the trunk shut and imagine I can hear the last whole pieces of bread exploding into a thousand pieces as the plastic crinkles under the pressure.

You know what, that’s fine. Crumbs are just fine.

I’m sliding into the front seat, preparing to bang my forehead on the steering wheel when my phone starts to ring in the passenger's seat.

In retrospect, I could have put the bags right there. 

The rattlesnake noise sounds again, and with a sigh I reach out half-heartedly to grab the cell off of the cracked faux leather cushion, though I keep leaning on the steering wheel, my hair draping around it on all sides like a deep-conditioned shroud.

“Hey you,” the text reads, “What do you wanna get for dinner?”

“I don’t know, you can pick.”

“Don’t be one of those women,” I can almost hear his laughter.

“What do you want me to say when I legitimately don’t know?”

“Indian food.”

I roll my eyes so far back I think I can see the inside of my skull.

My Mr. Moon could eat samosas and palak paneer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for the rest of his life without one word of complaint, but he knows good and well that I can’t stand anything spicy.

“Fine,” I reply lazily, “Indian it is then. Should I come pick you up with the van?”

The pause is too long. Something awkward and defensive in my psyche feels the need to add-

“There isn’t any space to put the chair in your hotrod…”

“Yeah. Yeah…” it comes through like a sigh, “That’ll be fine, thanks.”

I wish there was something else to say - there oughta be - something that would make him feel better as I stare dumbly into the silence waiting for some voice in the back of my head to give me some kind of a queue. But there are just crickets…

I know he hates the idea of me chauffeuring him everywhere, but I’m not sure what else we’re supposed to do unless he wants to take the train.

It seems impossible to talk to him without bringing up something that will remind him of his injury in some way or another - but it feels like shoving his head down into the cage every time he manages to peek through the bars-

I hit the steering wheel with my palm like some sort of Kungfu movie death strike, angrier than I can account for - with myself and with this life we’re stuck living.

I pull into my driveway seeing red - no - seeing this dizzy sort of purply-blue-gray - and snatch the grocery bags out of the car with such a violence that one of the ‘extra-heavy-duty’ plastic handles snaps, pouring the foodstuffs out onto the pavement.

And THAT makes me so irrationally angry that I could almost swear, but I force myself to squat down and pick the items up gently. Fortunately, it’s nothing but a couple of plastic ketchup and mayonnaise bottles.

As I stand back up I notice that the little flag on my mailbox is raised, and I guess I should probably go see what’s inside.

With a sigh, I carry my things into the house and drop them just inside the doorway before returning to the box to free my captive envelopes.

“How is it so sunny and yet there are still icicles?” I groan a little too ‘out-loudly’ and a little less under my breath than intended as I knock the ice off of the box. Fortunately, none of my neighbors seem to be home from work or school yet. 

I grab the single inhabitant of the cramped cage quickly and turn back toward the house, scanning the envelope as I do.

My landlord’s signature is scrawled across the envelope in a shaky, round hand, though it’s definitely too early for this to be my rent.

“That’s weird...”

I pry the letter from its nest the instant I get inside, throwing myself onto the paint-splattered cushions and skimming it at light speed-

My jaw drops even faster.

“-As I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, I’m by no means a young man anymore, and I really don’t have the energy to keep maintaining the building any longer. By my granddaughter’s suggestion, I’m going to sell all four apartments, possibly to new tenants, possibly to another landlord, whichever can get the whole thing off of my hands faster, since I’ll be moving into a retirement community this autumn, and would rather not still have those details pending. That said, you’ve been a faithful tenant, and I’d really hate to put you out, so I thought I should let you know before the apartments went onto the market, to give you the chance to buy your own if you’d like it…”

The printed letters ramble on and run together into one inky blur - all apologies and arrangements to try to make things as convenient for me as possible - but I still can’t help but feel shocked.

“Of all times…” I rest my forehead on my hand like I’m trying to punch out the headache before it can take root.

It’s always everything or nothing - monotony or drama all in a whirlwind.

The adult part of me rambles on diplomatically about how ‘this is just Life.’ But I wish Life would cut itself into bite-sized pieces - at least then it would be easier to swallow - even if it is distasteful.

I don’t even have the first idea what I’m supposed to do now. 

Never in my life have I even considered BUYING this house, but now I’ll either have to or find somewhere else to live, which honestly isn’t a very appealing option either.

“It’s just one more thing…”

I start the first micro-flinch of the motion required to stand up - like my body is trying to fake me out - pretending it can recover from the rattling that fast, but I stay put.

I should be painting. 

I imagine standing up, mixing my acrylics, and applying my brush to the canvas, but it takes me three attempts to even make the first step in that sequence.

Shedding my jacket and tossing it onto one of the rainbow-ish cushions, I squooze blue and yellow from the tubes. The colors blur before my eyes. 

I mix lavender - something like magenta and amethyst - make one stroke on the canvas-

What am I even doing?

I can’t begin to imagine what I’m trying to paint - my mind horribly blank.

I make another stroke, waiting for the motion to invoke ideas of…something…to inspire…anything.

But this is going nowhere.

With a sigh, I drop the brush, watching the paint spit from the bristles and fly through the air like lusterless fireworks before they rain back down onto the table in lavender splats.

I just want some tea.

Flicking the light on in the kitchen, despite the more than sufficient sunshine blazing in through the open windows, I put a kettle on and stand on tip-toe to grab the Thai tea from the top shelf, unsure why I ever put anything up there, considering that it’s practically impossible for me to reach.

I lean against the counter to wait as the tea boils, but keep my eyes on the tile, knowing good and well that it will nervously refuse to ever come to temperature if I’m staring it down.

The electric light hums with an eerie glow that reminds me of hospitals. 

I could move three paces and turn it back off, but I stay where I am and tolerate the anxiety soaking slowly into my skin like a cold rain.

I wish I could just go to sleep.

But I have the date-

I want to go on this date with Kattar.

I’m just worn out - tired of having to think - sick of ‘adulting.’

The muddy blues bleed through and I wallow in them.

Nothing ever seems to go as planned, but then I still have to make new plans, only for those to be twisted - morphed into other plans - someone else's plans…

It’s not like that for Mrs. Moon.

Almost nothing seems to ever be out of her control, to catch her by surprise. When things do go wrong in her corner, it’s always indirectly, somebody else’s faux-pas or trickle-up bad judgment that somehow manages to leak into her queendom - demi goddess-dom.

I wonder what it would be like to have my life under that kind of control.

The hum seems to grow louder and my thoughts turn inside out - the colors inverting into rosy blush and blindingly white-

If I ever managed it, would Kattar stop liking me?