They were three narrow streets that bled into one another, bursting with color and flavor. At night I knew there would be music and laughter, lots of it, of course, but in the late afternoon there were only tourists holding maps and cameras, bored shopkeepers, stacked crates of alcohol, closed windows, sleeping lights. The weekend hung overhead, humming with plans and promises. People agreed to move around slowly, carefully, measuring their steps. To wander about deliberately, to wander with purpose; this felt possible only at that moment. It seemed like everyone was waiting for a fulfillment of potential, an arrival of sorts. I didn't mind, not really—I had always been good at looking forward to something. There would be, I expected, so much more.
I write, edit, and produce books for a living. I also: take photos, attempt poetry, make travel plans, snore, do the dishes, daydream on the treadmill, and dress like a loose grandma. For feedback, questions, and invitations, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.