Last night I left my glasses in a Lyft.
Last night I ordered extra rice and beans at dinner but couldn’t finish them. My eyes were bigger than my stomach, an expression no one uses anymore.
Last night I chatted with the waiter about his boyfriend troubles, but I was so distracted by his darling black ringlets that I kept smiling when I should have been somber.
Last night in my old neighborhood I ran into an acquaintance, a man I’ve known for 20 years, who looked at me with a sparkly fondness that ricocheted between fraternal and lover-like.
Last night in the same neighborhood I found that my favorite shop, a tiny indie place stocked floor to ceiling with Japanese gifts and home goods, had survived the Pandemic and appeared to be thriving.
Last night I spoke with a nurse who got vaccinated for HPV when she was 9 years old.
Last night I spoke with a friend whose divorce might be the most respectful I’ve ever heard of, and I felt a moment of ancient rage toward my parents.
Last night I walked out into the dark street with a flashlight, scanning the ground for my glasses in case they’d fallen out of the Lyft when I arrived home, while Hubs stood at the window and watched out for my safety.
Last night I woke in a sweat and wiped my brow on the cool sheets, remembering the price we paid for them five years ago, and shuddering at what they cost now.
Last night I thought about change and transformation, hope and fear, chaos and clarity, old age and youth. Last night the sky was cloudy and I could not confirm that the stars were on.
Last night I dreamed they took all the music and threw it behind a paywall so high that only a millionaire could afford it. But when I awoke I realized my mistake. Everything has melted down. The river is flowing in the wrong direction. At this moment in history, the only true millionaires are billionaires.