the photojournalist

gives me his address and tells me to stop by. says he wants to read to me. yes, read to me. so i do. and he does. among other things. but then he starts in on the questions. he wants to know about my friends, who they are, what they’re like. “you don’t know them,” […]

brennan more

He says she’s guarded, that she’s got armor. But that doesn’t sound like her. Her words are more like . . . Poise.¬†And subterfuge. She’s perched in his windowsill, writing. The house is old. It’s early morning and there is spring snow falling, uncertain in its descent. She left the house early for coffee. “Lie […]

the photojournalist

Regardless of whether or not he’s aware of it, I know already that the photojournalist and I are involved in a dynamic that is larger than either of us, the purpose of which I have yet to fully comprehend. Outwardly, we seem caught in a competition to see which of us can be more. The […]

maybe if we were older

I really wish I could do this. In the first month we shared a dream, even. But I’m fucking up already, and I can tell the road we’re on by the bumps. I’ve been over these bumps before. And I don’t like this road. I know where it goes and it’s not a good place […]

the two of us

Twenty-one days ago we’d never met. “Wanna get married?” he asks today. “What?” I ask. I heard him, but you know. “Huh?” he mimics back. I smile. A lot can happen in three weeks. In four dates. “It’s an eventuality,” he says now. I don’t respond. “Inevitable.” I like this one, how confident he is […]