We read every Monday. Eight of us, give or take a few, depending on the week, gather from seven to nine and read in silence, spread across blankets in my front lawn or curled up with candlelight in my living room. We neglect our phones and laptops. No one talks. We’ve set this space, this slowness, apart from our lives of deadlines and multitasking. Some weeks, it feels holy.
It was a few weeks ago, in the glow following those two well-read hours—one housemate, David, finishing his chapter of England: a History; my other housemate, Will, describing last week’s trip to Squamish; my girlfriend refilling her wine and another friend preparing tea, three others planning a Harry Potter movie marathon; and all of us content, here, lingering past bedtimes to bask in this friendship—when Will interrupted his own climbing story and said: “I just realized I met everyone here through Josh’s online dating.”