L. is maybe the best cook I know. If she ever asks you over for a meal say yes. The ricotta pancakes were even better with lemon curd. They have five cats. O. and C. were born on the same day in the same hospital and they played spit in the back room while we talked about celiac and breastfeeding and how sometimes you can know that your desires are ideological constructed but it just doesn’t matter. You still want things. 

I sat in my house and ate the lasts of things, the remainders, sometimes it feels like feasting, not today, not today, the strawberries especially sweet, just about to turn and spoil, gone deep, deep red.

You guys, I cleaned the kitchen. I know. If you open the cupboard above the sink, you’ll find a stack of clean plates. I took one down and made a sandwich on it. Then I took another down and put some strawberries on it. Can you tell I’m practically very nearly on the verge of being 40?

I walked in and C. and A. sat me down at their bright blue table, issued me a bacon waffle, placed a dish of strawberries on the table next to a dish of apples, poured me a glass of banana smoothie, and handed me the issue of Us Weekly with Jake and his last four Bachelorettes on the cover. I ate while they moved around the kitchen, catching up on how much celebrities are just like us. The doorbell rang at intervals, C. and T. arrived with cans of whipped cream, I. and S. unbundled into the living room a little later, followed by S. I think the waffles would have gone on coming out of the oven indefinitely had any of us asked them to, that whole apartment like a horn of plenty.