called The English Roses.
I read it on the hardwood floor of one of my dearest friends apartments while drinking coffee out of a clay mug that she made. It didn't have a handle.
She left for work before 7 and I left shortly after, but first I sat in the calm of the morning in a home I had entered only hours before surrounded by her - books, scarves, photographs. I balanced perfectly on an imperceptible line distinguishing hers from mine.
I think that's home.
Marilyn Monroe watched me. I'm quite sure she approved.