We shared deep passions. John Hughes movies, the New Romantics, the Chicago Bears. We both loved chicken-flavor Ramen and hated the shrimp flavor. We liked thin-crust pizza over deep dish, and wine over beer, and gin over vodka.

I love a lounging pajama."
You also love a marabou mule slipper and a satin robe with a train.
"It is elegant."
It is insane.
"It is sophisticated."
Sure, if you're Nora Charles. It isn't 1940.
"Yeah, but look at yourself."
I look in the mirror. The silk and cashmere blend fabric has just the right amount of drape to conceal the lumpier parts of me without clinging, but enough weight to seem more substantial than sleepwear. The color is somewhere halfway between cream and ballerina pink, a color I would never pick, but is a lovely counterpoint to my pale skin and dark hair. All in all, I look fairly adorable for this hour, certainly good enough to warrant a little morning attention.
"Told you so."
Yeah, yeah.
"Didn't I give you a matching robe for that?"
Don't push it.
"I'm just saying."
Fine. I grab the matching robe. It has a wide band of gathered elastic in the back that hits right above my tush, giving me shape, even though the robe isn't tied. Made of the same fabric as the pajamas, it doesn't add bulk the way most robes do, but instead almost serves as the same elegant look a long trench provides.
"HA!"
You are such a bad gloater.
"Too bad. You look utterly shaggable.'
Well I hope so, since I'm pretty sure Brian doesn't think he is coming over for an actual meeting.

Look, Jenna, it isn't like Wayne is perfect. Our crew is a bunch of overgrown misfit children. Wayne had it the worst growing up, but we all had the unpopular weirdo freak thing in one way or another. I like to think that a combination of decent brains and a fairly good sense of humor kept us all from becoming tragic situations."
"You mean criminals and meth heads?"
Elliot laughs. "Exactly. And at a certain level, I think we all cling to our weirdness because it insulates us from trying to fit in and failing.

You are going to have to take the rest of these croissants to work with you, I cannot be trusted alone in the house with a half-dozen buttery, crispy pillows of deliciousness."
"Well, I wouldn't have brought so many, but that place will only sell them if you buy eight or more."
I laugh. A Logan Square conundrum. "I know. One of the neighborhood quirks."
"You hipsters with your crazy convolutions."
I laugh. The transitional predominantly Latino neighborhood I moved into almost fifteen years ago has indeed become hipster central. Full of young men in skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts and scraggly facial hair, and young women in cotton sundresses with motorcycle boots, all blithely riding about on their vintage Schwinns with earbuds in, making motorists stabby.

He comes over and lifts the foil off the pan. I can see that it is golden and crispy, and the scent of vanilla and butter wafts up at me. Elliot grabs two forks from the bin on the counter and hands one to me.
"I'll grab some plates."
"Don't bother. It's just us," he says, and digs right in. What the hell. I aim for a particularly crusty bit on the edge.
"Oh my, that is amazing," I say. It is perfectly balanced, rich but not heavy, just the teeniest bit of chew left in the bread, vanilla and butter and... something else...
"Toffee. Crushed-up Heath Bars in the middle.

Milk and cookies, anyone?" Elliot reappears from the kitchen with a large platter of chocolate chip cookies, and a little wire holder containing a dozen little milk bottles with striped paper straws, that turn out to contain vanilla malted milk shakes.
"Elliot, these are amazing," I say, slurping the bottom of my bottle.
"No one ever thinks about malt in vanilla, but I like it better than chocolate.