This town where my wife and I have made a life is the largest I’ve lived in. For her it is the smallest. In her old city shopping was anonymous. She bought wine at warehouses. Since moving here, she dresses for the grocery store prepared to meet neighbors. Co-workers will want to compare produce. The full-time greeter wears his apron over his winter jacket and knows her name. Sometimes, my wife sends me. I complain about the traffic in this town, mostly drivers from the rural counties who don’t do well with the turning lanes at the mall. I rarely use the horn, but if I drove a ’74 Ford Galaxie I would hold tight to my lane, actualize my right of way and use the sharp smack of my fender into the other driver’s door as food for thought the next time he comes to the big city. But my car is new. To be safe, I allow time. There is no mass transit, no Red Line or even taxis. There is always a parking space a block away from the restaurant, and we arrive early. We contend the term “city.” She says we live in the country. To be fair I pass a small acreage on my way to work where each morning four horses and two donkeys graze. Most days they mingle. On others, my wife reports when she arrives home from work, the donkeys decide they’re done with the horses and their superior airs. They gather on their own like two church gossips, across the field.