Mitch wandered around downtown Monument, enjoying the fresh air. Earlier, he had met up with Nate at Edmund’s Diner for a late breakfast, which was long overdue. It wasn’t that Mitch didn’t want to hang out, and he was remorseful about dodging several requests to get together since he now lived in the area; up until that morning he didn’t have the energy to interact with anyone that he didn’t live with. Guilt gnawed at him for waiting until the last possible second to agree to something since Nate had his family’s bakery to help run, but Nate had enthusiastically agreed to it and even let Mitch pick the place.

And. Well. It was nice that someone actively wanted to spend time with him. He had been such a miserable sack of human garbage lately, but Nate always acted like he was the most interesting person in the room. Was it a crime to indulge in that?

For the first time in weeks, Mitch ate something that resembled a meal. Although it was nothing more than half of a fried egg and a piece of dry white toast, his nausea hadn’t been triggered and his stomach didn’t lurch after he had swallowed it, so that was considered to be a huge win. He made a joke about being a cheap date, and the self deprecation seemed to go right over Nate’s head.

They spent most of the time catching up, since it had been ages. Nate lovingly talked about the three legged pitbull mix that he had recently adopted and a vintage Suzuki motorcycle he spent the past few months restoring. Forever self conscious about his passions, he was apprehensive to show pictures of either until Mitch had coaxed him into it. Naturally, conversation had drifted to how Mitch was doing, and Mitch didn’t have an answer outside of “alive”. He confessed that he didn’t quite know what to do with his life at the moment, since up until last month, so much of his energy had been devoted to maintaining something that was broken beyond repair.

Cutting through a small park off of Main St, he walked across the grass and over to a bench, and took a seat. The conversation from breakfast was ruminated over, and although Nate’s advice was simple enough, Mitch was gobsmacked that he had never thought of it for himself.

“Why not make a list?” Nate asked before they’d exchanged goodbyes. “Or two of them, even: a ‘to-do’ and a ‘wants’, and alternate between them.”

So Mitch threw his head back and stared at a maple tree’s crown above him, and the dappled light that filtered through it. The first thing that he wanted was to check out the record store he’d spotted on the way over, but wouldn’t be open for another 20 minutes. Since there was time to kill, he pulled out his phone and determined the first thing that he needed to do, which was find a therapist and to help him get his shit under control.

Armed with a paper bag full of used vinyls, Mitch returned home with a spring in his step. It had been so long since he last went crate diving, and he terribly missed the sense of adventure that went along with it: the musty smells, the ancient gig posters with the split fountain screen printing adorning the walls, the stacks of unorganized records that formed precarious mountains. The funk he had been in kept him away and uninterested from so many things that he was once passionate about, and this reintegration exercise felt like a huge success.

Fortunately, the bulk of his collection was safe at his uncle’s, since Calvin had made a fuss about the older records with the worn spines and how unattractive they were. He would have to grab them next time that he visited, but getting up to Burlington was a whole ordeal.

Among his purchases was a curiosity that he couldn’t pass up: a 7″ Backstreet Boys single from 1997. It was only $5, it wasn’t beat to hell, and he figured that it could be used as a small token of his gratitude for the car ride to Connecticut and the physical therapy that Avi had been providing. He thought about simply texting a photo of it as a goof, but the surprise would be much more fun.

When the duplex came into view, he picked up the pace and built up enough momentum that he was able to clear the steps on the front porch. Presumably, the energy he was experiencing was from getting actual calories into his body, because he couldn’t recall the last time that he was this invigorated. He opened the door, practically bursting into the foyer, and immediately headed for the living room where Jodie had allowed him to set up his turntable. As he drew closer, ambient new-age music got louder, and his nose wrinkled.