inside my own head.
Me.
Six months later, I’m sitting in my apartment on a Thursday evening.
Pasta is cooking on the stove.
Nothing complicated.
Garlic.
Olive oil.
Whatever remained in the refrigerator.
My cat is sitting on the counter again.
I’ve stopped pretending I care.
The balcony door is open, letting in the November air.
Dad’s old playlist is on shuffle.
Springsteen.
Tom Petty.
That Fleetwood Mac song he always played during road trips.
Diane hasn’t called.
I don’t wait for her to anymore.
She refinanced the house.
Carol
