The word circumference contains the sound of laughter.
I remember standing on a tiny balcony, precariously perched seven stories above a heavily trafficked street. Noise, the smell of fumes. Sunshine, the glorious feeling of being in love. And a tall Englishman, different from all other men I knew, laughing - no, giggling hysterically - at my mispronunciation of the word circumference. I protested, tried to look offended, but love was forcing a broad grin onto my face.
Later - close to dawn, after a night of talking of dreams and drifting around a summer-warm city - I stood on the same balcony and watched him leave on his mountain bike. He turned and waved at me.
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