My brother can laugh at jokes and one liners with a giggle. Really, he giggles. Christian and I would hear him from downstairs, laughter so irrepressible, I’d want in.

“What kind of humour do you like?” my sister asked the other day.

“I don't know,” I said.

I looked at Christian, “Do you notice me laughing? Do I laugh?” I asked suddenly alarmed.

I'm a serious person. My seriousness concerns me to the point that I chose “lighter” as word of the year. This year. 2020.

I think I could settle for amused. The other day, I went to Michael's to pick up yarn. The store near our house is staffed with women, a young one to tell people to take a cart and wipe them down, a middle-aged one to tell me about the annoyances of wearing a mask (her co-worker breaks out in pimples because of them), an older one in framing who helped me track down more dark-turquoise balls. At a second location, a woman directed me to a cashier. He was young and I felt shy for him. For a store with aisles dedicated to Martha Stewart line of stationery, paper decorating projects, and "silk flowers" advertised in permanent letters on the front there are few males at one time in the store. Mostly I’ve seen husbands following their wives around, or fathers with their daughters.

As I was leaving the store, two boys were standing beside a red sports car, affixing letters to the passenger-side window. Because I'm drawn to read anything that is written, I asked them what the window was going to say when they were done. “Your bitch” was already stuck to the window and they showed me their phone screen with the final part: “is probably in here.”

“Cause the tint's so dark!” one of them grinned back at me with braces on his teeth.

Contrast makes me laugh.