Hothouse friends, he called them. Like exotic flowers suddenly in full bloom, there’s no telling how long they’ll last. And the hothouse was Zenzi. This was six years ago, and I’d come to the city more or less alone. For people like me, it was a living room. You’d expect to see everybody you knew; anyone you didn’t know, well, you’d know soon enough.
That kind of awkward, desperate manoeuvre, the flurry of uninvited text messages, felt somehow beneath me. Shouldn’t friends just, y’know, happen? Develop organically, like in a garden? And, wait a sec—didn’t these people already have a life? Their own friends, family? Where were they all week?
Love the other parts of the write up too. Also love how the article doesnt really try to achieve anything or really make a point. Its just thoughts.