So I’m standing out there, holding my back door open with my hip, directing a waft of smoke away from the inside of my apartment building, baby monitor clipped in the pocket of my four sizes too big jeans. I can hear Isobel breathing and snoring, the monitor’s jacked up so loudly.
I’m surveying my surroundings, thinking of the coming day ahead. It is my last half butt of the day before I retire to bed.
I always look around because the simple fact is that I live in a semi-affluent community wherein a lot of homeless people troll the back alleys for our cast off organic juice (BPA-free) bottles, purified water jugs and imported beer cans.
Our does not equal me, you might care to know. I drink tap water that’s been filtered with a five months old Brita filter, I buy my vodka by the mickie and my juice is made from concentrate (with calcium added).
I like to be aware of what is going on, though. Who’s in the alley, ten feet from me. Just you know, in case I ever need to make a police statement.
And then it hits me.
That nondescript white van over there on my left, the chain link fence to my right, the open door behind me…
I’m in such a fucking weak point – I can’t possibly defend myself.
If zombies ever attack.
