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"Goodbye, Arthur," she said. "Don't button up too tight."

Arthur stripped. He tossed the hat, the coat, the sweater, the flannel, the thermal. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off the socks. The air hit him. He braced himself for the biting cold he knew existed.

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"No excess baggage," she smiled. "Now, come. The Queen of Texture is holding court." "Goodbye, Arthur," she said

“There’s nothing to fall off of,” Lena said. “You’re not broken. You never were.”

"It’s delicious," he said.

One autumn, I found myself unbuttoning an old shirt in the privacy of my own living room and smiling at the memory of June’s words. The town carried on with its clipped hedges and tidy porches, but somewhere behind the hedgerow the garden still held its simple, stubborn promise: that occasionally, when the sun was kind and the music was low, everyone could try on being a little more themselves.