Standing in Jeanne’s kitchen. . . she in the chic tan attire of a summer lawyer. . . drinking Mr. Coffee and talking about runaways. . .

. . . driving down Broadway, the rental car making curious beeping noises that I do not understand, cars passing me and the sun radiating from the dashboard. . .

. . . the swell of voices in Monarch, a weird cold coffee drink ordered. . . high scrolled ceiling rising above me, Roaring 20s tiles under foot. . .

. . . babies in strollers which double as car seats, a row of USB ports on board, pushed by their thin mamas who wear tight blue jeans and carry little leather handbags smaller than a cell phone. . .

. . . and always, the slight dizziness that being back in Kansas City neither causes nor ameliorates.  . .

. . . waiting for my friend Cindy, speaking to no one, writing about nothing, hitting hard on the recalcitrant “i” key and laughing, outloud, which not a soul notices in the rising din.

It’s the fourteenth day of the fifty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.