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.
Tag: love
Pockets of Space.
Perusing Instagram, my attention got stuck on a post about sisters. Specifically, sisters with radically different lives. One sister with a husband and children and one, single and fancy free. This didn’t feel like an accident, as yesterday I stumbled across a post about the grief of parenthood not coming to fruition. The idea that… Continue reading Pockets of Space.
The Hill of Lost Opportunities.
Man, today sucked. I know- what an intro. But it’s true. We had some shit go down at work and I’m feeling heavy. I won’t get into it, but it’s amazing how transformative any version of grief is, isn’t it? I imagine you might be thinking: ‘of course!’ P.S. I didn’t use duh because that… Continue reading The Hill of Lost Opportunities.
Did you read about Kohen?
Did you read about Kohen Wiley? I ask. Who? Danny replies. Kohen Wiley, I say, more emphatically, as if that might change her answer. This is absurd, I recognize. I was in the neurologist’s office yesterday and a woman was there with her elderly mother, and she was doing exactly what I’m doing now. Her… Continue reading Did you read about Kohen?
Sometimes, all you need is a win.
A few days ago, I was sitting, staring at my phone, fingers hovering above the Paypal icon. Should I? No. I shouldn’t, I decided. I swiped up on the screen, careful not to inadvertently submit anything resembling payment, and closed out the window. I don’t need a Knicks t-shirt, even if it’s vintage (love me… Continue reading Sometimes, all you need is a win.
Hot Mess Express.
My brain tracks the bead of sweat as it travels from the nape of my neck, down my spine, and finds a home in the lower region of my thin cotton tank. The dampness of my tank is almost indistinguishable from the veritable pool I’ve accumulated by the waist of my skirt. I press my… Continue reading Hot Mess Express.
I’d rather fail trying.
Saturday, May 2, 2026, 6:45 a.m. The whole thing was pretty surreal. Correction: it is surreal. It’s still ahead of me. All of it. The day is here and so it feels like one part of it is done. The anticipation part. The preemptive anxiety that comes just before the thing. Thoughts of what I… Continue reading I’d rather fail trying.
EHC.
I keep wracking my brain trying to think of something clever to say. I stare at the cursor unforgivingly blinking at the top left corner of my screen and it’s making me increasingly anxious. There is something in me that wants to sound profound. Meaningful. Despair fills corners of my heart, and yet, overwhelmingly, I… Continue reading EHC.
Franz.
There’s a moment where I’m staring at the Zoom icon and then suddenly, his face fills the screen. I take him in in bits and pieces. Round tortoiseshell plastic framed glasses, broad forehead, full lips formed into a semi-frown and sweat dotting his hair line. I instantly wonder if he’s just come from some activity… Continue reading Franz.
Tilda.
I’m studying her profile in a way that would be obvious if she weren’t driving. Maybe it’s obvious anyway, but she’s not the kind to acknowledge, not in that way. Her skin is still perfect. I don’t think they use the expression peaches and cream anymore, but if they did, if I did, this would… Continue reading Tilda.
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