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Isla’s Point of View
It was Friday.
I had always loved Fridays in Chicago because I had loved weekends. Here, Fridays arrived with a different quality — not relief, something warmer, and I had been telling myself all this week that the warmth was the whole of it.
This Friday was different.
“I don’t work.”
Valentina was drying her hair with the dryer we shared. It was hers. It was better than mine — less hurried, less heat, kinder. Like Sicily.