A red tree sits outside my window. It wasn’t there yesterday.
You wake up. It’s 7pm. You walk alongside the train line to 110 Chortle Crescent.
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I didn’t pick my moment well. We were standing in the middle of the vegetable aisle at Harris Farm, in front of an over-spilling tray of truss tomatoes, shortly after incurring the ire of a short and beefy man in a four-wheel drive whose parking spot I’d inadvertently taken.