A thin strip of exposed brick to your left suggests the former life of a sunny crêpe shop.  We pen wedding congratulations and prep for wedding celebrations.  We taste-test our way through the section of summer I’ll refer to as “pre-France”, croissant-galette-tarte-samiches on back steps in the rain.  We play “which corner would you photograph” and I point out the mansard roof to our right.  You like the font over Gary’s Drugs.  Hydrangea-stamped homes and organic-lined shelves pepper the walls of Beacon Hill, raindrops and creamy petals dot the floors.  We reminisce on touching toasts and hip bars with morbid names.  I notice floral details and you notice me noticing them.  We explore abandoned buildings from the top of the city, stumble upon a cornhole tournament and play a round to the sound of Purple Rain.  Hummus summons and we discover Pita.  We discuss travel both near and far in the future, and all the while I’m just hoping the future feels a lot like right now.