It seems a bit off but I like to eat toasted sandwiches in the summer. Nope, not in the cold harsh months of winter that call for warm, crunchy, carby comfort. No, I eat them when it’s 95 degrees outside.
Toasted sandwiches take me back to this time last year when I had just bailed on adulthood, quit my job to start school and moved with Stew to a townhome with a pool. Toasted veggie sandwiches were the lunch item of choice on days when I dragged him out to the pool in the middle of his work-from-home day, which for me was the middle of my nth hour of doing absolutely nothing. It was a beautiful thing, a simpler time.
This year I don’t really know what doing nothing feels like. I don’t really want to go to the pool because I know I won’t have it in another month and then I’ll whine about it. I put a deposit on a place in the city for myself and he’s moving away to work on music. It’s good, we tell ourselves. And I think it will be. But I miss last year a lot.