Suburbanite

Sitting at the bar counter at Middle Child on 11th Street, I'm surrounded by stories of rats and realtors. The men behind the counter are so youthful but also actual adults. Probably in that phase between college and mortgage.

Every time the guy with the mustache opens the oven to warm another ciabatta, the heat burns my face. 

I grabbed a business card while I was waiting for my sandwich because there was an image of Princess Diana smiling while wearing a vintage Philadelphia Eagles jacket. 

Maybe the picture is actually vintage, rendering the jacket vintage by default? None of that matters and I've dropped the card twice now on the slimy floor. What am I even going to do with it anyway? 

But it is a superior grade of sustainably made cardstock. I'm such a sucker for that kind of shit. 

I'm tired and sad today. Sickness has visited someone I love. Things feel dark and altered. Life is dim today even though the sun is shining. 

The nectar of immorality does not exist. Even when it's not the end, I know all things end in time.

"You from around here?" The sweet girl in the handmade soap store asked me as I sniffed around.

"Was but now I live in a nearby county." I offer. 

I bought the mojito soap bar to lift my spirits in a sudsy way. She's why I'm here, at this bar counter in the first place. She highly recommended it. I'm curious how she eats these massive sandwiches and stays so tiny. 

Soon I'll pass the urine scented stairs to ride the train back to my favorite place on earth. Home.

I'm now an alien in this foreign land of urban youth and believing that time doesn't expire. A visitor.

I'm the suburbanite. The misfit observing this bustling world from afar. How have I come to know the comfort of grass and trees and rhododendrons more intimately than cement and cockroaches?  

Hopeful I remain for healing, even if the stoic in me churns the realities of time. 

Feature Photo by Chris Henry on Unsplash