White like me

While riding my wife’s Batavus to the local farmer’s market, I stopped off at our local food co-op for an iced Americano. When I got home, while I was stepping out of my Keens, as is the custom in our house, my wife mentioned that the lesbian couple who live down the hall, both of whom are grad students, would like to have us over [presumably for a dinner party] sometime. “Sounds good,” I said. “Let’s try to do it before 2L year gets too crazy.”