Sometimes, I name my summers. The summer of 2008 was The Summer of My Western Bluebird. I surprised myself at the joy I felt with every sapphire swoop into the birdhouse and out again.
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It was a typical lunch with my friend. As he sat down, he set his phone face up on the table. I grimaced inside. Inevitably, the phone would ring or buzz. My friend would look at it and decide whether he should respond immediately or not.
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