Sixty packs. Five decades. A handful of returning faces.
The everyday person at the center of everything. Brooklyn. Black hair in a bun. Rust cardigan. The kettle always almost on. She writes. She notices things. She's okay.
Jan's cat. Small, opinionated. Appears when Jan most needs a witness. Accepts exactly six people in her lifetime. Has opinions about every lap.
She lives in Hangzhou. She calls at inconvenient times. She has opinions about Greg, the apartment, the lack of curtains. She came to Brooklyn once. She left a card under Jan's pillow.
Works at the bookstore near McGolrick. Shows up on a Tuesday with two coffees and an almond croissant from the second-best bakery in the area. He becomes a Tuesday. Then more than a Tuesday.
The best friend. Knows everything. Lives in California, then closer, then California again. Has a very loud laugh. Is almost always right. Shows up with snacks at the exact right moment.
She emailed Jan about the chair piece in April. Eleven emails became twelve. Her father was named Jonathan. She started writing on Wednesdays. They haven't met. The exchange is a friendship.
The plant on the windowsill. Jan has kept him alive for four years, mostly. Mom moved him six inches to the left in Pack 23 and he's been better ever since. By Pack 57 he is Greg IV.
Part of the friend group. Shows up at dinners. Once sat on the floor at a party for forty minutes talking to Jan about something she can't remember but needed to hear. Easy to be around.