The girls are screaming their hellos from opposite poles of the floor.
The trash cans in our bathroom are overflowing again.
There are lines for my beloved Sunday lunch, and they snake around the corners of the cafe.
A turquoise suitcase is spilling clothes on Mindy's side of the room.
The deathly quiet has dissolved away.
I have a knotted, unsettled feeling in my stomach; the storm is about to break and I really have no umbrella at all.
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