SUNDAY MORNING

I sat alone on my little balcony, atop all that is the second floor of my apartment complex. Views as far as the eye can see. And frankly, all I see is the pool and courtyard enclosed within the rectangular layout of the buildings. The morning is slightly crisp, but tolerable in one's pajamas and flip flops, with the burly help of my boyfriend's heavy winter jacket. Still, my feet are freezing and lacking blood flow. It's been a thing.

After distractedly glancing through a few pages of my book, I sheepishly placed my bookmark between pages 10 and 11 and stared at the bird shit on the cement floor of my small outdoor oasis. My mother would be pleased. It was common superstition among the Chinese culture that bird droppings are a sign of wealth and fortune to come. Being raised with superstitions is a form of brainwashing. No matter how much I deny its function and validity in my world, I always seem to live by them. My unit number doesn't add up to 4. The kitchen sink and stove don't face each other, as to have you swiveling back and forth when cooking. Our unit isn't at the end of a hallway and our front door doesn't face west. Despite the recent trends of adorning a bedroom wall with a large mirror, we've left that out altogether as to avoid having a mirror face our bed. And of course, thanks to my upbringing, clouded by the dos and don'ts of questionable things, I find myself slightly optimistic when I come across bird shit on my car windshield or, in this case, my balcony floor.

The whoosh of traffic from the 65 highway is nonstop, but distant enough to qualify itself as unofficial white noise. I don't mind it. I say "highway" nowadays instead of "freeway", hoping to open myself up to the idea of making Nashville more of a home now that I'm no longer in Southern California. But secretly, like any woman adjusting to a new relationship, I cannot help but compare.

Nashville's residential bubble bursted recently, shortly after I moved here less than a year ago. At its peak, the poor small town city took in roughly 125 transplants a day. Gentrification and Instagram-ready culture took to the streets. Fast food franchises have no room to live downtown. In with tapas dining, breweries with Facebook events, and whatever it is that white people do with food belonging to other cultures. Occasionally, one might stumble across an authentic gem sandwiched between hair salons and tax businesses. Everyone is new in town, starry-eyed and hopeful to make friends, find love, and do something with their lives. I came here reluctantly.

I slip my feet out from the flip flops and tuck them under me in my chair. It was sprinkling. I didn't notice at first because it came so timidly - soft, tiny droplets all perfectly spaced apart and melting into the ground upon impact. Great timing. Just as I thought I was being too much of a basic bitch curled up on a Sunday morning. Eventually, the big honchos follow the light rain to announce their arrival. I am thunder, hear me roar.

My phone lights up. "I heard there was a shooting at the Waffle House in Tennessee. Hope you're not near there and everything's okay." I take a moment to appreciate my friend before replying.