In the midst moments
I approach the orange umbrellas and high tables. I pick the middle table, where I know the sun will eventually slide, plop my backpack and my purse onto a neighboring chair, and wriggle awkwardly into my own seat. I open my laptop. Stare at the group of men vaping across the grass lawn. Wow, I
I’m late, again. He stands, says hello, gives me a hug. “How long have you been waiting?” I ask, dreading the answer. He shrugs. “About ten minutes.” I study the pavement intently. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” he says, and I believe him, but still. “I just thought you were here already.” “I was here, except
A hazy, lazy autumn afternoon lit by slanting sunlight. The day slipped away like water in my hands. I dove in and out of my book, rising periodically to brew another cup of tea, pop popcorn, peel a tangerine. My sister, sprawled on the couch beside me, tapping on her laptop, the clicking of the
I step out of the freezer, and immediately inhale smoke. I’m not sure it’ll ever stop being alarming, for that split second before my brain catches up with my senses and I remember that everything is fine, this is a usual occurrence, it’s under control. Sous chef Rosa is cold-smoking creme fraiche again. It’s a
“I’m at the gas station,” I said. “I’m leaving now.” The gas line clunked and the numbers on the pump stopped climbing. I pulled the nozzle out of the tank and clicked it back into place. “Okay. Text me when you get home.” “Bye, Mom. I love you.” I unplugged the white headphones, rolled them