I trace the younger version of my face on the screen. My cheeks are ruddy and my eyes shining. My hair is the shorter, frizzier version that I gravitated towards at that age. I remember that I felt compelled by that girl in summer camp who chopped all her own hair off, but I can’t… Continue reading Pink Coats and Happiness.
POSTS
Flying Low.
My anxiety feels palpable in that way where I am certain it is obvious to those around me. A woman younger than me recently remarked that it felt too warm on the plane and I felt a simultaneous rush of relief and panic. There’s something about validation of suffocation that feels relieving and also, incensing.… Continue reading Flying Low.
Spa Day.
I’m incredibly conscious of my nakedness underneath this robe. There’s something about being in a common space in a state of undress, even one filled with similarly half-dressed humans, that feels exposing. To describe myself as modest would be incredibly silly, but I’m also not apt to parade around with my lady bits out. I… Continue reading Spa Day.
Hugs and Kisses.
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.
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.
