This isn't my coast

I got a call from Sara yesterday. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Walking with Bella through Central Park," she said, "Going HOME."

"Shut up," I said.

"No. We are walking HOME to our APARTMENT in NEW YORK CITY. Because, you know, we moved to New York two days ago."

"I can't believe that," I said even though I already knew that.

"I MIGHT have woken up last night and had a little panic attack," She admitted.

"What was that like?"

Sara produces a bunch of slobbery-sounding shudders and goes, 'I miss my coast. I miss my mom. This isn't my ocean. This isn't my coast."

After 33 years in Washington and California, Sara has a subway stop (86th and Broadway), a doorman ("Good afternoon, Mrs. Levine!"), and qualms about smart ass MTA workers.

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