We are gypsies. Or it feels that way inside tents, in a city that feels a little post-apocalyptic. My friends from years ago are there, one wants to sleep next to me in my tent. We sleep deeply. I am warm and cozy next to her. Morning comes and my other friend opens the tent door. She is ten years older than she was the last time I saw her. I am still a little in love with her and care too much about what she thinks of me, of my tent and the way I keep it, about the things I say, which to me are funny, but to her seem juvenile. She is serious, I'm shocked by how serious she is.
