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Prospect Summer


Our first night in the new apartment, Max and I slept with the windows open. It was mid-July and the street sounds were steam hiss over Jamaican barbecue, stereos blasting all the radio stations at once, the drone-shriek of cicadas. Max wanted to shut the windows. I wanted to keep them forever open to the strange entomological violence of Brooklyn. We had known each other since I was two weeks old, and we didn’t fight frequently.

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"Prospect Summer" was originally published at Booth.