I pull into my driveway and my neighbor is standing in front of his door wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts that go to his mid calf with his bare feet shoved into slides that are too small and probably from 2005. Nearly every part of him is large, outside of the fact that he’s 5’7”: his beer belly protrudes from his ribbed cotton shirt, his his ego escapes from his messy house (his door is wide open, all the cold air is escaping), He watches me park. His woman, for lack of a better term, stands up straight at right underneath his eyebrow, and she glares at me too. I let my hand trace the chair sitting on my front porch for a few seconds and wonder why I’ve never sat here before. Residue rain falls from the outside banister and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this stupid little god forsaken studio. My neighbors are still watching me and I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me. I’m rarely here. With the hair on my arms all standing up in unison, I unlock my door and step inside, drop my keys and count my money. My knees are rusty, I feel small. There’s only so many times you can do this, and only so many times I can too.