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My friend Janice is in her late-thirties and I have to admit it changes the way I see her. I think of her a woman of the world with far more experience than I. So I'm intrigued by her. And because she is also silly, giddy, likes to drink and gossip, and has always been there when I needed someone, I am inclined to love my friend Janice. I live with her now.

I met her one month ago. I know very little about her. I don't have her standard phrases memorized. If we got into a fight, I wouldn't know her particular habits, whether I should leave her alone or needle her until she vents her frustration with me. But we've come to a very comfortable arrangement. A mutual understanding. She drinks wine. I drink coffee. She buys cream. I wash the wine glasses.

"I have this friend, whom I've known for years," she says to me over a glass of cabernet, "and she has a group of friends whom I don't care for."

And Janice began to tell me her story. My mind makes weird leaps sometimes. As she explained the situation of her friend's friends to me and I realized, again, how much we had in common, I was reminded of my childhood.

Which brings me to my sister and the car....

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