The final curtain of the Radical Boundaries Potluck was drawn not with a whimper, but with a carefully choreographed interpretive brunch conga line. Shen led it, of course, brandishing the Integration Gong like Moses parting the emotional Red Sea. Behind him followed Flynn, softly weeping into a croissant. Then Greg, who had achieved full transcendence and now only spoke in tapas metaphors. Eva moonwalked into line like a reformed fever dream, shouting, "I'm reclaiming the narrative AND the mimosa carafe!"
Zach brought up the rear, clutching Ava's gluten-free traffic cone muffin like a holy relic.
"Wait!" Clarissa shouted, halting the procession with all the gravitas of a woman who once made a narcissist cry during a sound bath. "We forgot the final, final, final ritual."
A hush descended again—like a cloud of unresolved attachment styles.
She turned to Ava. "You must now confront… the brunch within."
Ava blinked. "We're still doing this?"
