They overwhelmed us like it was no big thing. We were just about home. Front porch. Max's after-dinner tea galushing through my pores and the afterglow of a swift bike ride slightly downhill splashing red in my face. Then, there was yelling. It was coming from down the street. What? Erica asked. What the fuck? I wondered. It was our neighbors. The hip, skinny ones I'd noticed from across the street and around the corner. They were calling out to us and then they were one our porch like whoa, like apparitions and names were exchanging and hands shaking. There were five of them; three females and two males and as we stood there, talking about the night and it's quiet and where we were coming from and what they were doing, I felt compelled to invite them inside. You know, the next step to the dance. Then they were inside and so quickly, I realized this was an inappropriate decision. This was Thursday night. This wasn't college. This wasn't a big house. There were sleepers. And these two hipster, cleancut bitches I was taking on a tour were still yelling, and they were liking our place, which made them louder. "It's so nice!" They yelled. "Wow! This used to be the crack house!" They pointed and smiled. "It's so nice," they yelled. They bared their white teeth and smiled at me. "It smells like paint!"