It used to be that I could call you on a Sunday afternoon to say, “Meet us at Shoolbred’s!” And you’d be there in ten, guacamole order placed, debating whether to sit in front of the fireplace or at the round mosaic table with the street view.

It was a serious conversation, but not about love or men or marriage. We used our choices like a friendship ledger. Who claimed spaces in our platonic hearts. Who mattered most. Whose credit ran deepest. Sometimes we would recalculate, drop a name off, add a name on.


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