On the upper upper west, the sun sets like a dream across the Hudson. New friends outline themselves against the twilight. Summer is kind, caressing your cheek with a moment of reprieve, knowing the storms to come. One day you left a job you'd had an entire life and you forget to let it feel like something. He sends you travel schedules and itineraries, trying to coordinate the miles across the country. The year surprises you in slow motion.
Another ticket sits in your back pocket. Your floors smell of lavender fabuloso. You tell him it doesn't smell like lavender and all and he says, no, it smells like purple, and you wonder if this is what America is. I haven't packed yet.
I'm ready to surprise it back.
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