From: Liz Houser Sent: Monday, October 5, 2026 10:03 AMTo: Gina RezzioSubject: FAVOR- Confidential Hi. I’m sorry to bother you as I know it’s not really your domain, but one of my employees has been harassed (?) by a client and I’m not sure how to handle. Do you mind if I forward you the communication and some of the… Continue reading Hugs and Kisses.
POSTS
John Doe.
Fingers wrapped around a plastic cup coated in condensation; I study the man just to my left. Ill-fitting charcoal suit, Men’s Warehouse tie, and dress shoes that are both well cared for and weathered. He’s carrying a dated leather briefcase in one hand and a foil-wrapped container in the other. I imagine it’s a breakfast… Continue reading John Doe.
Grown-Up Friends.
We somehow find the same space in the rich earth. There are so many plots, so many squares of chocolate colored dirt, and still, our hands bump. Not even a graze, but a nearly complete overlap. As I am apt to revert to anxiety, I instantly think of the subway and my incessant need to… Continue reading Grown-Up Friends.
Oh Joy.
I zoom in on the little circle containing Joy Raffen’s photo. I’m sure her profile pic would open to a size that’s more pleasing to my middle aged eyes if I just opened her LinkedIn profile, but I refuse. I’m certain she’ll be able to tell- it will engage something, send some notification, and I’m… Continue reading Oh Joy.
2001.
Washington D.C. Hauppauge, NY London, UK The Golden Girls. Dead phone lines. The blackest smoke. Shattered glass. Cars driving over dividers. The Pentagon. Low rise cargo pants. The Towers. The Evil Ones. The 9:30 Club. First responders. Cantor Fitzgerald. Anthrax. Late summer DC heat sitting over early fall. Suited workers running with briefcases. Sharp shooters.… Continue reading 2001.
The Farmer and His Wife.
I’m doing that thing I do, where I ease out of my own skin and observe. I watch, seemingly from afar, but usually, exceedingly close. I’m not judging, just observing, noting. I can still see his twenty-something year old face underneath the mask of later life that he wears. All things considered, his prolonged time… Continue reading The Farmer and His Wife.
Cheers to Fifty Years.
The Mad Hatter told Alice that she was much more muchier- that she had lost her muchness. I’ve felt this so profoundly at points in my life. Mostly, at the end of, or immediately following the demise of a relationship. How could I make Sus and Doug’s anniversary ode about me? Well, because I’m muchier,… Continue reading Cheers to Fifty Years.
We are all on trial, aren’t we?
The room is inky black and the only real sound I can hear is the whirring of my wall air conditioning unit. Well, that and the dehumidifier that feels essential for life these days. I turn my phone horizontally, hoping that this makes the image large enough to feel a greater sense of connectivity. The… Continue reading We are all on trial, aren’t we?
Go Eat Rocks.
The sticky air has coated every inch of skin and fabric, molding my thighs to the wooden bench below me. I rub my right foot over my left, feeling remaining grains of sand gently abrade the thin epidermis. Staring down at my book, I realize I’ve gazed at the same page for twenty minutes or… Continue reading Go Eat Rocks.
Holy Matrimonial Hell.
I can feel sweat beginning to form on satin that is jammed into my underarm. I’m pissed but this is inevitable. I’m a person who is prone to sweating and Bonnie had to pick motherfucking satin. To be fair, I’m not sure there’s a fabric that would escape my body temperature regulation, but this one… Continue reading Holy Matrimonial Hell.
