August

I like Sundays. I have off on Sundays. Oftentimes, I make butter on Sundays. Today, I made a peppered lavender butter. It was delicious. I spread the butter on an everything bagel with a slice of tomato, thinly sliced ham, and pickles. Afterwards, I took the dogs on a nice long walk. I came back to my clean apartment and did some reading.

Some of my neighbors were having a potluck and it was the first time I'd seen them out and about. They were much younger than I was, maybe in their early twenties, and I wondered whether or not they knew much about me. I wondered if they thought of me as the old guy on the second floor with the two large dogs. I wondered if they thought I was strange, or grumpy, or old-fashioned. I wondered if they knew about my past. I watched them from my window. They were on the small grassy area in front of the apartment building. They were shoving cupcakes and rice and beans into their mouths. They were having a good time. I wanted to go down and join them, but instead, I watched for hours as they ate and talked and laughed. And soon, it was dark.

It is August. It must be August.