Today, nothing. An old man smiled at me, wild, hair ragged. His back was against the wall and the sun was hitting the bricks so they were white-washed. Even from twenty feet away I saw the wrinkles on his cheeks, the crookedness of his teeth. He was on the ground, in an abandoned parking lot before the light on Pico. I planned on taking the long way to the light so I could stretch my legs, but his gaping smile alarmed me, the way he was leering. Maybe he didn't mean to. I don't know if he was wearing shoes. If he was they had no shoelaces, were barely on him. Like he'd found them somewhere. Or maybe he was a millionaire. Maybe he once was. A helicopter flew low to the ground, right above our heads, and I thought, maybe something's happening, maybe somewhere someone's running from something, really running.

I remember downtown art walk. Now it's become a drunk fest. People come out, they shout orders, get in fights over taxis. But good things happen too. Men breakdance in the streets. Last time we walked to the second floor and there was an impromptu band. A piano in the corner. Some lady singing the blues. They had lined up bottles of vodka along the worn wooden tables. A makeshift bar. Wine and beer. The floor slanted towards the windows, people swayed to that lady's voice, she had shawl upon shawl wrapped around her, she was swinging her hips, and I wanted to be her, swinging my hips with a voice like a cool breeze that would make you forget, make you want more. 'Stead I've got this um, um stutter. You'd think I knew the truth, but it's hard to tell.

A two inch cockroach crawled out from under the sink, scurried to the fridge. M pushed the fridge to the side, squirted the cockroach with bleach. By the end of it there was bleach on the floor, on the wall, on the cockroach, but its legs were still kicking. Now he's on a cleaning spree. He's moved the fridge entirely. "I've never had a cockroach before," he says. I hear the water running, he's spraying and scrubbing. I'm a lousy girlfriend. He cooked a whole chicken tonight. When it came out of the oven it was golden brown. Moist. He made tzatziki. He's a real grown-up. He cleaned the bathroom too. Today I went to work. Sat in traffic for two hours. Stared at a computer screen. Thought of teaching english abroad, but then I realized sitting in a classroom is the same as sitting at a desk. Or no. No. It's not.

During the day I go to the bathroom to stretch. Since the office is a loft, I don't feel it appropriate to stretch out in the open, even though there's all that space. So I go to the bathroom and do yoga in the handicap stall. I stretch my arms to the sky, I stretch them to the floor. I pee, occasionally. In the toilet. Then I flush. Go back to work. When my neck hurts, I'll go back. Just to walk somewhere. All that I need is on that computer, and I need an excuse to look away. Walk to the fridge. Walk to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I stretch to my toes, I practice my snake arms, I swirl my hips, I do the funky chicken. Okay, I don't do the funky chicken, but sometimes I just flail around. It feels good to flail. Then, on the rare case another person comes into the bathroom, I freeze. Tight smile. Hey. Or bright smile. Why hello there! I am always surprised when someone comes into the bathroom when I am there - like they've punctured the bubble of my world. They usually don't pee until I'm gone. Which I think is weird. Like they're shy or something. Or maybe they're doing their own yoga-snake arms, and we're both just shimmying in our own private worlds.