Waiting outside Coles, near the row of shopping carts, neatly fitted together, a set of plastic storage drawers under one arm. Waiting for a lady named Bernadette, who asked for the drawers, because I had offered them on a website online. Wearing the same jean shorts and top from the day before, I try not to look suspicious as people pass me to get into the store. I watch kids ride their carts back into the other bays, arms lifted so they can be picked up and out, and back into their cars.

A man in a blue car comes to pick up what has been my wardrobe for two years – four metal baskets slid into a frame. IKEA. He has with him a child, a little boy in the passenger seat, tattoos on his neck, a 20 in his pocket, and his name. He told me his on the phone, I tell him mine in my driveway, a minute before he drives away.

I mow the lawn, attacking the sides and around the big trees before going in a measured square, working my way in to the fluffy blanket of weeds and dandelions that spread out beneath our apricot tree, and the tree that hasn’t flowered. I shut off the mower when half the lawn is half trimmed. I sit in the carpeted hallway of our upper floor, turn on the air conditioning and drink iced water. The mower refuses to turn on again when I am back outside. The container of oil is forgotten on the patio table.

“Are you still making cheesecake?” Is there supposed to be shame in admitting that your idea of baking is sometimes putting together a box mix and some frozen berries? The result is the same; I will eat it. I am apologetic about wanting to do nothing at all. I am apologetic for not wanting company. Some people understand, and some don’t.

D helps me fold the couch bed back in place, so I no longer feel the residue of my Christmas lounging. I tell him about the window I opened and could not properly close during that time, too. And he fixes it. I unload the dishwasher as we chat. Later, I come down to the kitchen and watch him chip away at the second freezer’s overgrowth with a screwdriver. He empties the freezer’s contents and I refit it into the other one, turning a frozen ice cube tray sideways to do so. I feel immensely clever, and I continue feeling this way as I slide a newly boiled pot of water into the iced over box.

I watch Drive, mildly distracted by the font used in the opening titles (Mistral). I open up Word and type the word Drive in the same font, to see if I’m right. I watch bits of the other movies on my hard drive, fast-forwarding to the specific parts. I watch the sky turn tangerine and grey, mixed together, outside my window and think about having my heart broken. I think about telling someone they have broken my heart, and I think of them asking for my forgiveness. Could I forgive that? I eat the last of my snickerdoodles and manufacture sadness as the sun sets.

The washing machine breaks down twice during a load; shifting the wet towels around doesn’t quite work until it does. The dryer is running and there is a blanket in the wash – destined to be given away to another stranger, on another day waiting outside at Coles.

The moon looks like a lemon slice in the sky, and the grey blue is threatening to take over and darken. There are the soft pops of fireworks, and I sneak downstairs to the front room to open the curtains and watch. It is too late when I get there, and I hope D does not see me waiting. I walk down the length of the house, having a conversation with the open doors when I hear more pops. Running to the window yields nothing but then I turn my face, and there it is. Turning back, I see the wisps of a star fade away in the dusk sky. It is too light for this, and now the moon looks like it’s smiling. I hope no one sees me here, but after a while I lean into the window and forget to mind.