We share a table at the atrium and for an hour write quietly in our notebooks. At one point, a man wanders in and tells everyone he's just bought a house. Then he dances, his arms out-stretched. I look at her, she looks at me, each of us thinking, "Is he going in our story?"
The advice she gives me assumes good faith in everyone. That if you tell someone you're hurt, they'll hear you out sincerely, instead of enjoying your discomfort or attacking you for troubling them.
The pond is gold and olive green in the early evening. The trees that border it are a tarnished silver. We sit on a bench, the backs of our hands touching.
He's tried to hide it from me, but I can see on-screen that he isn't feeling well, and I get uneasy.
Short-rib tacos paired with a frozen non-dairy mango-flavored dessert.
People dip their toe in the past, in a room with limestone walls and rippling columns.
If everyone else left, it would just be me in a dusky room where unicorns prance on the high stone walls.