One time this happened...

The smell of stale coffee clings to our conversation, a lingering reminder of last night's 3 a.m. discussion about nothing in particular.

I've spent the last three days practicing how to cook eggs, mainly scrambling and making overeasy; my friend Claire asked casually while we sipped coffee if she could come over for a cooking session before work and honestly, nothing's changed, still slightly overestimating our kitchen skills.

Sometimes memories seep out of my earplugs when I'm walking to work. Last week, one of them was about Emily.

Sometimes I find myself rummaging through my grandmother's attic, searching for anything remotely useful to distract me from the sound of Emily's voice. She's got one of those 'let's-just-talk-it-out' personalities, but honestly, it's just been too much for me to handle.

It's been six years since we started having the same conversation every Monday at 5 pm - the one where Alex inevitably asks if we've started reading any real books lately and I sheepishly rummage through my notes on David Foster Wallace's lesser-known essays. Rachel always chimes in with some well-meaning recommendation from the literary magazine I secretly haven't cracked open since college.

My cat's obsession with the radiator has nothing to do with the warmth, I'm positive. Every evening, while our friend, Maria, is practicing her salsa steps in front of the living room window, our cat, Mr.