I Sharpie-scribbled my way through a violently lime green pad of Post-It notes.
Re-emerging from the air-conditioned world we found it had rained, and stopped.
I didn’t tell him kindness won’t stop the fascists.
He should be home Thursday, or Friday. No particular time is better than another.
As I got ready for yoga class, I thought about having a baby.
This is what it is to be 29, I thought.
It’s supposed to be good, I keep hearing. So I try to make it good.
The salad won.
I can tell you all the things that are going to happen today and the order in which they’re going to happen.