On a late morning, quite a few summers ago, we were tending to some direly neglected plants at the top of our stairs — guiltily overwatering them. Our heat haze was interrupted, hearing the familiar creak and slam of our neighbor’s screen door. Absolute familiarity perceived a subtle increase in violence. We peeked over the wall. A man was earnestly walking down the steps, our neighbor’s boyfriend. A yelling voice issued from an upper window: “Oh, so what?! Now you’re addicted to meetings?!!” Then a low, resigned reply: “Well yeah, maybe I am.”

Years later, we now think a better response would have been: “Well yeah, look around, nothing happens in a vacuum.”