At the time of this writing, my wife, Katie, is experiencing her period. My puppy, Molly, is also experiencing her period. They’ve both been pretty pissy. This morning, Harry, my one-year-old son collapsed to the floor and pounded his head on the hardwood in unbridled misery because I wouldn’t let him put the television remote control into the kitchen trashcan. All of my Apple devices are slowing down and I can’t wrap my head around navigating the storage on my hard drives and my cloud servers. It makes me want to pull my hair out and gag myself to death on it.

 We’re not a happy home. We’re not an unhappy home either. We’re a moody home.

The red door is near, faded and worn from the hands of so many patrons. From the quiet sidewalk, the din is growing. In the pretense of the holidays, the flock gathers at their flowing altar and pray long hours deep into their bottles. They cheer at sports, they laugh about each other’s lives. Farmers, factory workers, caregivers, teachers. The little town’s heartbeat throbs inside where the air is dark and the fragrance of stale cigarettes sits in the back of throats.