Summer Gloom

The woman next door is cheery as you carry in groceries. You give her a fake smile and drop six heavy bags on the kitchen floor. You uncurl your arthritic fingers, feeling sweat drip along uncomfortable places. Suddenly, you feel bad about your fake smile. As if she knew it wasn’t real and analyzed it.

She rotates men each week. An athletic blonde, a dark-haired guy who looks 20 years younger than her, and a skinny, tattooed man who brings her flowers. You question how hard it is to juggle people’s hearts.

You jam your groceries in the fridge because you’re lazy to organize them. In a week, most of the veggies will go bad. You’ll throw them out and complain again about how you waste money and how hard it is eating for one.

You collapse on the couch and think of your childhood friend’s brother. The one who eyed you up when you were a kid and offered you beer. He always gave you a bad feeling. Years later you found his mugshots and learned he got a teenager pregnant. He sits next to you wi…