Ten.Two Thousand One Hundred
I still need to remind myself what day it is.
It’s already hot.
Things were not as they seemed. That is a good thing.
We talk about his upcoming trip and the Barbie movie, and the poem she wrote.
Or maybe they are. I listen but try not to look like I’m listening too closely. I can’t differentiate between the quirky way in which he talks and his nervousness. My gut tells me it’s his nerves.
It’s a bit anticlimactic, unfortunately.
We make a few stops on our way back. The extra time feels like a gift. I don’t really have anywhere to be.
I tell her I’m not sure if it’s still Covid brain or life, or maybe it’s just that I don’t care anymore, but I feel like I have no more creativity left.
I tell him that the day was just weird. That everything is getting worse.
They don’t get it.
