Apparently all it takes to get out on the roof is a quick slip of the screen. It's a minor tragedy that it took us over a year to realize this. Now our evenings are spent climbing out of windows with wobbly glasses of wine, with books, with cameras, with bowls of guacamole (my dad's recipe) (when we're feeling ambitious). The kids in the alley play basketball and swear at each other viciously, but I could (and do) sit out there for hours. The tar on the roof turns the soles of our feet black. The light goes down behind our trees and it is perfect, perfect, perfect.
(Freckle alert above. I'm trying to embrace it.)
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