WatercressBaby

As I write this, I’m sitting in my car and watching the goings-on of a late-night parking lot. I have the AC on halfway, enough to chill but not freeze, and a smooth jazz piano is playing via Bluetooth on my mom’s Mazda. It’s nice. The world is nice. I tend to get in these fits of frenzy about how lovely the world is, sometimes borders on mania it feels. But right here, right now, everything’s okay. I’m doing okay. Debating on going to get some post-shift food at Whattaburger but I know money’s tight right now. There was a man who had an errant Target cart hit his vans door before rolling off, to which he started chasing it so it presumably didn’t hit another car. I watched with amusement before sticking my hand out of the door to give him a thumbs up. To my suprise, and slight terror, he started walking up to my car. The first thing that hits me is the smell of cigarettes, a feeling associated with my father, a complicated smell. He tells me his story about the cart and we both laugh at the inconsequential absurdity. Two flecks of dirt in the cosmos coming together, just to laugh. I hope he’s having a good life. I wonder if my Petsmart will ever turn off it’s light, or if it’s just resigned to sing it’s muzak to an empty store. It’s kind of beautiful isn’t it?