seeing my car baking in the 2 pm heat from my window

Summer is short. Even spring combined with summer goes by too fast. It’s like a breath you take when you’re running, and been smoking for too many years to count; more like gulping oxygen than a real breathing.

I’m sitting here taking the street in from my desk on the second floor. My knees hurt. Hell, what am I saying? _I_ hurt. My knees, joints and fingers. Even my hair, which is white, hurts each time I look in the mirror.

By now you’re wondering if I’m a male or female narrator. Sorry to break the wall, but I’m female. I’m female and 73. These seem like things worth repeating right now. They didn’t seem to matter a few minutes ago, even a few days ago. But now they do. I’m thinking about my death everyday, I’m likely a widow, and I’m writing this.

What I wanted to mention was the sand I found today. It was in the backseat. It’s obvious where it came from. I lent my car to Michael yesterday. He’s my neighbor and he’s 19. I lent him the car for his birthday. He comes over and chats and watches me smoke and doesn’t smoke in front of me though I smell it on him when he arrives. I guess he was seeing his girlfriend. It’s not too much trouble to get the sand out. The most difficult thing is to think of myself when I was Leonard’s girl, ages ago, sneaking away and finding love.