Is it okay that he’s over here so often, hooking up my mum’s speakers and swirling his single malt Scotch? We all wonder, we never ask.
Whatever angle you look at it, one detail is incontrovertible: in the end, a man is going to be killed.
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Is it okay that he’s over here so often, hooking up my mum’s speakers and swirling his single malt Scotch? We all wonder, we never ask.
Whatever angle you look at it, one detail is incontrovertible: in the end, a man is going to be killed.
The author of The Secrets We Kept on Doctor Zhivago, the Lavender Scare, and book burning.
A record of my failure to understand the world's greatest living chess player.
The author of Make It Scream, Make It Burn on being skeptical of skepticism and championing the ordinary.
Driving an ambulance in an opioid-torn city in the age of Narcan.
This summer, I assigned myself the task of swimming home, moving through the neighborhoods and communities that, side by side, would bring me back to myself.
They had only been married a year and she knew with absolute certainty that his mother would blame her for this.