I live in a place where I run into friends everywhere I go.

At the grocery store (or sometimes, it’s a halfway creepy text describing my outfit moments after I’ve pulled out of the parking lot). On an evening walk down the block. At our garden space.

It’s trading recipes and talking about band recordings in the canned soup aisle. It’s a corner discussion about work and buying houses, sucking on mint leaves from the herb garden our neighbors have said they want everyone to share with them. It’s unplanned porch beers and spraying the dog with the hose and finding zucchini blossoms on your newly transplanted summer squash.

It’s mid-June, and I’m sleeping with the windows open. I’m editing a novel. I’m cooking. I’m applying for new jobs. I’m trying, really hard, to keep my chin up. I am happy.

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