it’s 8pm and the buildings are still sweating. their windows blink their heavy lids, weighed down with heat exhaustion. we haven’t been to the beach yet this summer. when you’re…

the little brick apartment with the dirty carpet. an oversized dresser and 150 square feet, all your own. the true meaning of solitude — and how it wraps around your bones in its quietest moments. the first 40 hours at a desk; a summer of fluorescent light sun and cubicle…

we were always at Olio waiting for the next two people to fill the seats at our four top. every night we wore black with glitter smudged across our eyes and between our fingers—we were too old to feel invincible but it was something close to it. there was the…

the water between New York and New Jersey looks like it should be ice this time of year. it doesn’t feel like Christmas.

first there’s the couple crawling across the white tablecloth just to deliver the punchline, heads back in hilarity before the joke’s even finished. does the pavement remember all the dinners it’s caught the drops from? the flood of people leaking out their front doors every morning, just trying to find each…

do you remember age seven, coming up from the pool for a milkshake? before you’d tasted coffee? before your parents’ secrets?

there they are again. the lids of coffee cups lining the sidewalks, three-day-old grounds and a kiss of lipstick on the rim. haven’t you…

Oscar took his time twisting on his blue tie, staring at himself in the mirror. It was Wednesday — that’s why he was wearing blue. Always blue on Wednesdays he recited to himself, then shuddered. Shut up, you loser. Did he really have the energy for another one of these…