Every night, when the stores close and the moon washes the world with milky light, Stella and I talk. We don’t have much in common, but we have enough. We are huge and alone, and we both love yogurt raisins. Sometimes Stella tells stories of her childhood, of leafy canopies hidden by mist and the busy songs of flowing water. Unlike me, she recalls every detail of her past. Stella loves the moon, with its untroubled smile. I love the feel of the sun on my belly. She says, “It is quite a belly, my friend,” and I say, “Thank you, and so is yours.”
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