Eleven thirty twenty-five.

Coffee, sidewalk, shovel.

Pedal, pedal, stand.

Unwelcoming and unapproachable. Dressed in black and failing to find community in the nine to five. Burnt candles and stacked books. Plants leaning for the windows. Rearrange the rug. Move the furniture. Refinish the floors. Load the dishwasher. Invite them into your home. Have the dinner. Pass the wine. The people around you aren’t your friends and you’ll come to learn that in the next two years.

Baseball games and group chats and piles and piles of bullshit. A framed photo of you in uniform. A framed photo of a Christmas tree. A framed photo of a framed photo.

Pancakes. Dust pans. A leather couch.

Shoes by the door and you’ll break every rung on that ladder.

Plays disguised as movies. Movies disguised as opportunities to connect. A sandwich in heartbeat. A heartbeat in a river of tears.

Go to breakfast and stop complaining.

You’re a fat bitch with an eating disorder. You’re an eating bitch with a fat disorder. You’ve disordered your eating you fat bitch.

Sad. Unsettled. Discontent.

Not angry. Not upset. Not outraged.

Disjointed. Disconnected. Isolated.

Where I wondered about community, I lost it. Where I wandered into community, it lost me. Winding. Windy. Wendy. When. Why?