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Didn't post this the day I wrote it. Not especially great, but I need to beef up my backlog.

I sit on the back porch, listening to the traffic of I-64 and Jane Schoenbrun’s Criterion Closet video. Wafting about me is an indelible melancholy, on my breath tomato pasta sauce heavy on the garlic. Through the foliage separating the northern edge of Carver from the highway blink the lights of cars, and in my backyard the fireflies glow lazily. Lane just got home, and Edna gets up from his chair to investigate.