I sat on the floor, running my eyes across the titles in John’s big CD collection, arranged in alphabetical order. I stopped when I noticed a sequence of five CDs that were sitting in the same order in my alphabetically arranged collection, four blocks away.
In the shade outside a coffee shop (a coffee shop that I wouldn’t be able to locate on a map), sipping chai, picking chocolate chips out of my scone, chatting with Ingrid’s coworkers. A pair of pigeons competed for crumbs, boldly brushing up against my hands several times. Twenty feet away, a man with a happy round face sat hunched over a typewriter, back to the sidewalk, confidently typing away with index fingers. Each time he reached the right edge of his paper (leaving no margins), he swiped the carriage return back to the left and let out a loud belch.
Ingrid and I peaked into the windows of the little house that she’d just committed to buying the night before.
We dug holes in Leah’s yard, sifting out rusted chunks of another generation’s garden tools. We planted trees and sad little tomato plants.
I picked up The Turn-Ons Viewmaster package that Ingrid worked on . . . Uh, I didn’t have much cash on me, so I had to borrow the money for it . . . Actually, Ingrid kind of borrowed the money for me.