There’s a party and I’m not invited.

Not that I necessarily wanted to go anyway, but it’s weird now.

And it’s not that I wasn’t invited. There’s always been an open invitation policy in my neighborhood. “If you see us sittin’ around da fire, come on ova.”

Like I said, as much as I might want to act all casual and cruise on over, it’s kinda weird now. You know what happens when a couple splits up? It’s customary for all of their mutual friends to pick sides. Apparently, everyone’s rooting for team Stacey now. And the best I can hope for is an occasional “hey” across the yard.

Months have passed steadily on, and there’s still that somewhat awkward “hey” and little more between me and my dearly missed neighbors. We used to chat at length. We used to get together for potlucks and s’mores around an outdoor fire at regular intervals. But then the script changed. Stacey got his heart broken, and I (as the catalyst) became scorned, mistrusted. (Nevermind the fact that my heart had been tattered along the way also.)  Stacey moved out and the neighbors asked why it wasn’t me who was leaving. They miss him, I can tell.

Nothing is as it was before. These once good friends of mine now appear to have little interest in me, my fiancé, our new life together, or so it seems. I just haven’t been able to breach that imaginary wall between us. Maybe if I got over this resurgent social anxiety of mine, whisked together some sort of snacky food and headed over to the fire … maybe then the wall would crumble and we could all be cool with each other again.

Miss being haole
listening to surf stories
told in island tongue.


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