He had Alex now, he thought. He wouldn’t feel those old pangs. But the loneliness greeted him like a—well, not so much like an old friend. But. You know. Like loneliness.
Fiction
At night she would try to dig her way out, and I would pull my stitches tighter, snipping off the tips of her fingers.
This was a real friend. Like old times—better times. When your chip bags spilled over and your idols reeked and all your friends tried to kill you.
I see now that I’m synecdochic for every institution she’s felt pinched by, every older person she’s felt used by. She wants to summon what little power she has left and ruin.
There was, I thought, a type of man who’d frequent a bathhouse. This turned out to be ignorance.
In the middle of the night, the train makes one of many stops in a small town whose name appears written in a dream alphabet.
I am now one of a small number of people to have actually seen The Four in the flesh. Well, not quite the flesh.
They had only been married a year and she knew with absolute certainty that his mother would blame her for this.
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