Shayna responded to my email inquiry on Thursday night, and I just knew. Apparently, when she read my email inquiry, SHE just knew. She called me Friday morning and we gabbed like a couple of gurls, which I suppose we are. It's nice, that. As much as I heart menz, I really don't want to go home to a sausagefest. Eight years of submarine movies and excesses and deodorant-smelling soap was quite enough.
Driving from the freeway to the house yesterday afternoon, I went by
1) the hospital where I was born, and
2) a large, old cemetery.
Portentous? We shall see.
My heart leapt as I saw bike lanes appear on the road in my maybe-new neighborhood. The closer I got, the bigger the trees got, and the thinner the traffic got. It was no Westchester but it sure beat Davidson Street.
Shayna met me out front and led me through her be-Jetta'd garage to what would be my room. My blue room. And sizeable bathroom. Both with trees and green outside and shady sunshine pouring in.
See?
You might also see, if you press your nose up against the monitor, that there is a hill on one side of the condom-inyum and a large, empty field on the other. To the north is a retired guy who keeps an eye on things, and to the left is whoTF knows, but they didn't make any noise while I was there, so for now they're just fine by me.
And so the check's in the mail and I have (95% fer sure) less than one month to remain in residence on Davidson Street.
Amen.
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