I’ve spent so many Sunday nights taking the same little walk with D. The route is the same–up the hill, past the bodega, the pub, the bar, the doughnut place, the rummage shop. Down the hill, past the tree that smells like moth balls and the crazy guy that cooks with too much garlic’s kitchen window. He’s got old tikki torches and tin cans growing weeds all around his door, which makes me swear I really live in Athens, GA and not Seattle, WA.

I come upstairs after, belly growing week by week, and wash my face, pluck my eyebrows, put on pajamas and settle in. It’s the most personal, universal, everyday end-of-the-weekend routine.

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