“There were some boys partying next to the carport earlier.” I’ve used this excuse before. Exalted always says Leos are natural liars. “I called the cops, but you know how they’re useless … unless, like, a young blonde is murdered or something.” This is something I’ve learned from crime TV.

Karen looks at me quizzically, and I have a sudden and intense urge to hit her.

“I wonder where they come from”—she puts her keys into her door, still staring at me—”and why I’ve never seen them before.”

“Oh,” I say. “You know teenage boys. They run as soon as they see someone who looks like their mom.” I say this just to be a bitch. Leos are natural bitches. I can be really sweet too. I’m a great friend. I’ve always been popular and not above using intimidation to get there.

“I guess,” she says. “I just hope it didn’t get into my apartment.” She clocks my wallet in my hand. “Going out?”

“Just to the store,” I say. “I’m out of milk.” Another lie. Karen is judgy. She doesn’t need to know I’m going out to buy alcohol. And more cigarettes. She doesn’t understand the concept of TGIF.

“Be safe,” she says, then disappears into her unit. I stick my tongue out at her closed door.

When I get to Fourteenth Street, I light a cigarette. I’m glad I left my phone at home. I don’t need to be reminded of Tara’s idiocy. Instead, I’m happy to look at the purple sky. The air is warm, hot almost. October is our summer in Riverside. They call it “Indian summer.” My son said that was offensive to say. Ever since he went to that fancy art school, he thinks everything I do and say is offensive. I never understood why he was so desperate to leave Riverside. It’s clean and the people are nice, minus Karen. I told my son about my shitty neighbor, and he said something like, “Mom, you’re on Instagram too much. How do you know what a Karen is?” And I said, “Huh? Her name is Karen.” He just laughed. I never got what that was about. Ever since he moved to Los Angeles it feels like we’re speaking different languages.

I don’t recognize the 7-Eleven attendant.

“New here?” I enjoy chatting with shopkeepers, especially now that most of my friends are busy with their kids. I had my son young, when all my friends were partying, and I started dating women when they were all getting married to men. My life has never gone the way it’s supposed to.

“Second day,” the attendant says. She has a fresh round face and shiny black hair. I stare at her youthful skin. I want to touch it.