Building a life from scratch is exhausting, even when it’s so much fun. Hard to celebrate the good in case it slips and easy to grieve the bad in case it sticks. I still eat like I live in a hotel. The run club I appear to have joined pushes me to my fastest and longest run yet. A cooking book I borrowed from the library is asking for ingredients I have no interest in owning, like flour and onions. Just as I continually refuse to learn that impatiently biting into a steaming hot pizza will burn the roof of my mouth, I’m stubborn about being able to carry a basket-ful of groceries without the aid of a bag. A prop comedy act, in effect, one that garners smiles of sympathy from my neighbours. The nine to five is mostly remote. The five to nine is a date or a book. A date with a book. A book from a date. A booked date. A dated book. I wake up in the middle of the night to find that I’ve fallen asleep reading on my rug. I stay up late thinking, thinking, thinking about someone else. My…
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