Can you imagine the feel of a car on black ice? Have you ever stepped off an edge, expecting solid ground and finding only air? Could you pick that panicked stomach drop out of a lineup?
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You have made it exactly 43 minutes into your Wednesday morning before that bold wardrobe choice becomes a familiar lament.
White? Haven’t you learned?
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“If it fell in there, it's yours now,” she said matter of factly, staring past the necklace dangling from my fingers, saying as much with her eyes as her words.
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There are few things cuter, and sadder, than a mouse’s unaware butt inside a mouse trap that you’ve caught him in…
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Sitting here, facing a blinking cursor on a blank page, the nail of my ring finger robotically picks at the nail fold of my thumb like a metronome. After I get a bit of traction in the flesh, I switch to the sharper tool of my first finger, which is slightly serrated thanks to a sloppy bite a few hours back, or perhaps yesterday. I don't need to look at my hands to work an itch.
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In splatters of oil—hot wax covering the body from head-to-toe, and you still work reception without screaming—the lamplight badly hitting your shorts or movie star shoes—burn after wearing. Burn after marring. (Burn after first sign of a mistake.)
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I only possess things that hold history, specifically a history that I know intimately and played a role in creating. Yes, I do own certain kitchen appliances and pairs of jeans that lack a nostalgic backstory, but for the most part…
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