I met one of my favorite sisters, Writers, cult board members this evening for cocktails. Having been raised under the influence of four intelligent, head strong, females, I find in my adult years I surround myself with a similar tribe.

And when these particular tribal members are red-headed Writers… watch out…

Neither myself nor my people do anything in halves. So when the two of us ordered a punch bowl of ginger cocktail to share and a cigarette-scented waiter held up an enormous crystal fish bowl accompanied with, “Are you sure?” Only one response fit.

“Yes. We’re sure.”

I had a lovely evening of gingery goodness preceded by a cucumber infused gimlet and followed up with a mysterious chocolatey concoction, straight drambuie, and a wide eyed waiter saying, “That’s impressive.”

In between there was turkish bread with sun dried tomato dip, tzatziki, and baba ganoush. There were rice balls with gooey, cheesy centers and sweet chili sauce and a bowl of warm olives saturated in red wine and balsamic vinegar.

A Streetcar Named Desire projected on an off-to-the-side movie screen while we talked about Europe and stories and covens and history. Personal history. The sort you only share with the people you love the most.

I walked my companion to the nearest tram where she was whisked away until we gather at an art gallery tomorrow evening. I came home and the puppies pulled me around the block so bloody fast they actually blew out the back tire of my bicycle.

I wrote a few poems earlier today, not quite ready to read them yet. But as far as days go… there’s isn’t anything more to chase.