Kate Pedroso
The next time I see Natalie, she is moving next door.
Actually, she sees me first. When she approaches, I recognize her immediately—she looks just like her mother, back in the day, and there is only so much I can do to keep from smiling.
She smiles in turn, and it’s just as I remember, her eyes twinkling like she’d just been shown the most amusing thing, like a mango on the verge of ripening, or a perfectly shaped macopa fruit. Only this time it’s just me, the bag in my hand, and the surprised look on my face.
“Natalie?” I ask. She moves in for a quick hug, not minding the hamper still tucked under her arm. “Christ. It’s been what, a decade and a half? How have you been?”
We can’t help but laugh at how awkward it is, our hug hampered by a hamper. When we part, we’re sti
