We spent the day indoors, escaping the heat of the Valley during summer; even the festivities of July 4th were not enough to wane me from the air conditioned box that I have come to slowly call home. By day we played X-Box, and I advanced to level four of Halo 2, and by night Justin had downloaded a few more songs for his ipod, but his collection is still sans MuteMath or the new release from Johnny Cash. By night we ate tuna and green breens, deciding to forego the hamburgers for another night — perhaps tonight! — and watched Syriana. Then the thunder of the holiday came, and we stepped out into the sweet humidity of three stories above ground level in Mesa. We watched as Fort McDowell erupted over the buildings, and the occassional breeze, ten degrees cooler then the still air, grazed us. Five minutes later we stared out over the back of Sprout’s, and over the top of a gas station, and watched as the sky exploded with color over Central Christian and Mill Avenue. But all the fireworks were far away, and we did not feel as if they belonged to us. Then the night ended, another sip of the vodka and orange juice to somebody else’s holiday, and the winding down of old Jimmy Eat World. The day was better alone if it was meant to be between us, and the crowds would only remind me of the people I am not with.