The woman jaywalking toward my side of the street is slight, with stooped shoulders and a bent back. Her wiry neck branches into collarbones so sharp that they resemble a wire hanger…
I run my mother’s old engagement ring along its chain around my neck. Back and forth in the absentminded way I have been doing since I strung it there last month.
Sir Ernest Shackleton set out on the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition to cross Antarctica in 1914. If you’re savvy to this sort of history, you’ll remember that he never made it.
You write out of Montana now—with July’s still-snowy mountains. You are led up and down a scrambled map, open prairie, the bluest lakes, the sharpest peaks…
…your dad put on a Bossa nova record and the other dads clustered by the stereo, talking about vacations, real estate, cars, baseball, their icy old-fashioneds jingling like tambourines.
Alie breezes in with her big warm smile, scans my barcode—to make sure I’m the right person, or maybe to see if I’m on sale—then carefully lifts up my sheet and peers down at my penis.
My hair stylist brushed chemicals onto my hair. The clientless stylist in the booth beside us talked about how she’d recently—finally—lost the weight she gained after getting off Adderall.