![]() “Hi, sweetie” she said, laying two fingers on my wrist. I am almost sure that she was not drunk: This was how she always looked, only at this moment, she looked more that way than usual. ![]() I had barely poured myself a drink when Rielle came bounding up to me. For better or worse, I have a near-perfect recollection of what followed. Then, one afternoon about five years ago, I arrived for a party at the house. I think I said to my friend once, “What a wack job,” but that was the extent of my relationship with Rielle. She would tell us how she’d had an amazing yoga practice that day, or give an elaborate description of some braised root she’d eaten for lunch. ![]() Rielle padded in and out in Ugg boots and flared yoga pants, and in a voice that contained strange elements of surfer-ese and lockjaw, gave unasked-for information about her life’s journey and personal health. ![]() The homeowner who had been a friend of a friend had, by virtue of my stay, become a close friend, so I was still over at the house a lot. ![]()
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