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.
Tag: writing
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.
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.
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.
Penny’s for your thoughts…
It’s so goddamn hot outside. The kind of hot where it’s hard to think straight. I knew this and tried to be thoughtful about my outfit and still, there’s little that can be managed in this kind of heat. I’ve learned that even the lightest black or white cotton will betray you, showing slivers of… Continue reading Penny’s for your thoughts…
The Shortest Long Beach.
Christine looks around, trying to remember what it was like when this space felt joyful. She felt so goddamn lucky when she got this apartment. A godsend. Inexpensive, great location. Sure, the traffic sound was a little intense at first, but that faded in time. The first time she saw the apartment, she was awestruck.… Continue reading The Shortest Long Beach.
