Pavement

She lives below me, across the hall. She thinks about me from time to time. She's from the nice parts of the area, I wouldn't say that I am too.

Her partner is muscular, probably played football or was a lifeguard, and from her city as well. They park together, expensive cars - side by side. It's funny to me.

I'm on the pavement wondering why they're living in our shitty complex.

Sometimes, I like to make faces at their cat, perched at the window, when I'm getting mail. Occasionally, she'll walk to the window right when I'm vicariously wishing I had a cat. (The landlord must think little of me based on how many times I was told we aren't allowed to have pets.) It's not too awkward, but I get a little mad wondering if she thinks I'm looking at her.

She goes to the gym in shorts that are revealing. Her boyfriend acts like we're friends, but I never initiate or prolong any type of conversation.

I sleep on a mattress with no sheets. He's a young realtor buying into America's dream. Part of me hates her, hates them. Part of me wonders.

In the not too distant future, my situation will be better. But I can't imagine I'll be hoisting her up in pictures as they do on their trips to Costa Rica.

Yes, it's true. I looked them up on Facebook and I'm a creep, society would say. But his last name was on his license plate. Part of me wonders.

Maybe she would be the best I ever had. Maybe she has a friend who could be what I've been saving myself for. But I'm still on the pavement wondering why you're here in these shitty apartments. Maybe I should be the one wondering why I'm here, even though I know I do.