Blackberry mojito, guacamole, jicama salad.
Long talk about a love of writing.
Giggles.
A hope that seems reachable.
A brisk walk home amid trees dressed with white twinkle lights, only a slight chill in the air, unseasonably warm in November.
Everything is still and quiet, even downtown, like I have it all to myself. Like it's all mine.
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