Saturday: 1:32 PM The NY train is late. On the platform, I shiver and sip my cooling Chai Latte. I balance my cup on the railing and stick my hands in my pockets. My back hurts from the cold.
Sunday: 9:15 AM My alarm goes off --I have to get up to go have brunch. The room smells vaguely of smoke. Next to the bed I find a small burned hole where my husband dropped his lit cigarette on the carpet.
Sunday: 10:10AM When I go to leave, I find the front door propped open. I see my husband’s keys dangling from the lock out in the hallway. I try to close the door behind me, but the hinges are broken.
Sunday: 1:30PM My fried potatoes taste like heaven -- all garlic and crip edges. I want to eat more but I can’t. Next to me, two sisters argue about whether or not Sharon Olds gives good critiques.
Monday: 12:15 PM I poke at my Teraki Bowl ™ at Au Bon Pain. The meat is really greasey but the rice is okay. The salad tastes like nail polish remover. My boss makes another joke about trees and asks me what’s wrong with my food.
Monday: 10:30 PM I lay propped up on my bed in the youth hostel, trying to read contemporary feminist criticism. My room smells strongly of bleach and I feel sleepy. I take another bite out of my sugar cookie, licking at the apricot jam at the center.
Tuesday: 12:45 PM New Jersey is squalid in the rain. From the train window I can see into everyone’s backyards. They’re all full of broken plastic -- collapsed fences, torn tarps, half-buried Big Wheels. I yawn and my lips hurt.