Did you see the moon last night? He rose just above the live oaks on our street, a few nights from full, missing a sliver yet still impressive. He watched over me, illuminating the neighborhood as I walked around the corner to Jill’s house. I carried a bottle of Chardonnay in my groovy wine tote—a must-have in our porch-partying neighborhood.

The night was unseasonably warm. I felt lighter as though years and pounds and worries had melted away with my new haircut. 

An ambulance whipped past me, its siren so piercing I covered my ears. Then another. A wreck on Gaston?

I had forgotten to eat all day and imagined what the evening’s menu would be. These nights were more about the food and friends than the month’s book selection. 

Jill’s street was extra dark. Where was the moon?

Jill’s porch light wasn’t lit. 

I soon discovered I was one night early for book club.