May 28, 2020
I opened my eyes. Glenn, in a shadow, stood at the foot of my chair, his figure eclipsing the sun that shone from behind him.
“What?” I said.
“You’re red. You got sunburn.”
“Oh, my god,” said Kim, sitting up. “You did. Look at you. You’re so red. Oh, my god. It hurts just looking at it.”
“It’s just a little pink,” I said,
May 27, 2020
In Japan, deference to hierarchical gods has beget a vending machine culture.
May 26, 2020
I was leaving Heuston Station when I saw it.
The beginning roll through the high slate walled outskirts. Dry in places – seeping wet in others. I looked up for just a second – just enough time to see
written in Tip-ex or gloss on the outface of a brick. It would not have stood out if even a single other piece of graffiti was within six feet of it.
May 24, 2020
“The critical thing,” Kyle says, playing with his lighter, “is whether or not you’re doing the after party this year.”
Jeremy’s hands, two big leather gloves stuffed with ground meat and horsehair, come up to Kyle’s mouth and cup around the cigarette so the wind, too hot for September, doesn’t blow out the cheap Bic.
“Rebecca wants us to,” Jeremy says. He leans his brown-skinned, leather-jacketed back against the Pregnancy Resource Center,