I have a lot of keys on my keychain. More than half of them I don’t know what to do with. Where did they come from? How did I ever receive them? All I know is I’m afraid to throw them away. What if they belong to something important? These keys I’ve kept for years. And yet, where did they come from? The only relevant ones, as far as I know, are for my car, which is my fob, my apartment, the gate to my apartment building, and my mail key. As for everything else, your guess is as good as mine. My worst fear is if I lose them. That could be as bad as losing my wallet. Maybe not as bad, but as close to it. I just want to unwind and not have to worry about them. I bought a thing, which I don’t know what to call it, that fastens to my belt loop for my keys so I won’t have to risk them falling out of my pocket. Why can’t I think of the word? I bought it on Amazon. I must’ve known the word back then. So what happened? Why did the word fall out of my brain? I guess I could call it my key fastener. The keys swing and jangle when I walk. I look like a janitor and have about as many keys as one. But at least a janitor knows what to do with them all. As for me, I’m at a loss.

I’m stuck outside. They kicked me out of the coffee shop because of a water issue. It’s already over eighty degrees, and the sun is barely even out yet. It’ll probably turn ninety in about a half hour, and I’ll be sweating in this chair. But that’s okay. It only adds to a long week.

Which leads me to birdwatching. One of them is hopping around on chairs and tables. I can’t tell what type of bird it is. I’m bad at that sort of thing. My mother is great at it. She can tell me what type of bird, what type of flower, what type of tree. I wish I could wear glasses that tell me because I have difficulty naming things. The answers would appear on my lenses like the words on the eyes of the Terminator (if you’ve seen that film).

Anyway, it’s funny watching people try to go inside the coffee shop after they’ve posted a note on the door that says they’re closed for repairs. People pull and pull the door as if it will magically come unlocked if they pull hard enough. They need the coffee so bad that their minds deny it’s true. And so they stand in disbelief and peek through the glass at the baristas inside as if that would make any sort of difference. But it’s the reality. We’re stuck out here in this heat. It feels humid, a rare thing in the desert. It’s usually just plain old heat. It’s supposed to be double-digits next week. That would be paradise, but still hot to most people. All I can do is complain about how hot it is and if my laptop can withstand the heat on this table.

The same old regulars sit outside with me. I don’t know any of them except one, an old man who introduced himself once. And I remember his name too. Every other face is familiar, but I know nothing about them. I’m staring at plants, just killing time this morning, and I’ll keep killing time this afternoon until night comes.

The baristas have brought a stand outside on the patio with a big green coffee dispenser, styrofoam cups, a jug of half-and-half on one table and pastries on another table. They’re giving everything away for free. I guess it’s an apology for making us sit outside. They’ve turned the misters on, which feels good but not great. It’s still hot out here. I don’t want to go home either because I’ll be home all day. I figure I could walk around until it’s time, but I still have two-and-a-half hours to kill. Oh, what a day so far.