I walk from the parking garage out the side door to the street. Hollywood Boulevard. There’s a Starbucks with tourists and locals. Selfie-sticks and people who smell like hotel soap. I get a coffee and walk to work. I'm always early for my shift.
We went on lots of walks back then.
You kept talking about the staircases there, the way they wrapped around each other like DNA strands, and the friendly people who lived in each unit, and all the walks you could take.
These are my lifelines, the things I remember. The poultry aisle glows white. He grabs a bottle of wine; any one will do. Bouquets of flowers near the checkout line. Bundles of roses. A rubber band around the stems. White, white roses. Brighter than she’s ever seen. Brighter than she’s ever seen.