I sat on the back porch, patiently waiting for his arrival. It was early evening, maybe June. I remember heat. I was trying to type something creative on my new laptop. My drink sat quietly beside me, my best friend and worst enemy. I took a sip. A gulp. I love that warmth.

I remember the neighbors being outside. Kids running up and down the street. Shouting. I thought, You know…these poor people. They don’t get life. Look at me. I’m cool. Shiny new laptop, creative juices flowing, 80 proof flowing. I’ve got my shit together…I was/am delusional.

I think I was starting a story about sisters who were serial killers. Wait, I just found it. I guess it was more of an idea:

Cecelia and Anna Marie Fitzpatrick are sisters. Best friends. Partners in crime…literally. Both are secretively serial killers. They’ve lived double lives. Jointly, they’ve claimed more than twenty victims, and they aren’t planning to stop anytime soon.

Lol. What was I doing?

I notice that the neighbors smoke often. They probably wonder why different guys come and go from my apartment and why I frequently look like I’ve been run over by a bus.

I remember refilling my beverage, my bev. Let’s call her Bev. Maybe this was #4? It was around 7pm, so that was probably an accurate guess at how many times Bev and I had danced. I definitely visited the bathroom numerous times to check myself in the mirror. I think I looked decent. I mean, I didn’t really believe it but Bev told me I looked like a fucking god. I took the compliment.

I think he arrived around 7:30. It was nice to meet him. Sure, come into my apartment. I’ve never met you in person and I’ve been chatting with you on an app. Bev approves.