Last night, I left the apartment, ran down the stairs, and grabbed a strawberry candy out of the Holy Food Box on the way out the door. The holy strawberry candy was calling my name all the way down 6th Avenue, but I waited until I hit 10th Street to open it. The wrapper unfolded quickly in my clumsy fingers—too quickly—and the candy fell to the sidewalk. Sad.
I was sad last night because I was on the way to my last book club. I wasn’t sad about the books, of course. In fact, I hadn’t even read this month’s book. I was sad because this would be the last time I would ever see most of the people in the book club.
As a group we came together randomly, yet grew to like each other deliberately. And it is rare for me to find people who are cut from the same cloth as me, who are witty and progressive and literate. To discuss books with them was to have a Master’s class in literature without the pretension; to replace study with wine, to turn classmates into friends.
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