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I wake up to a block of butter on my doorstep. A mentioned she’d drop it off so we could bake cookies for a gathering tonight—we’d borrow sugar from J to complete the recipe. Artist friends are coming over to our place for a spa party, an act of care A offered in divine timing—we’d be leaving for the Bay the next morning.
That evening, we sit in a circle on the floor while A kneads her knuckles into jawlines, melting tension away. We devour tiny, tart clementines and freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, chips still hot and oozing. V is crocheting a cozy rainbow-shaded sweater, and B & S are wiring together clay earrings that had just come out of the queer wood-fire kiln that took days & nights of communal tending. People trickle in and out as we laugh about what kind of horses best represent our egos; ask each other deep (and not so deep) questions; and share one thing we each want to take from this experience.
Our answers build a world:
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