He struggles with reading and math but maybe he'll get the life he wants anyway, his photo in Sports Illustrated and a mansion with many sports cars.
Old cakes topped with sugared roses wilt in the dull white light.
It doesn't need to be perfect; it just needs to get done. It doesn't need to be perfect; it just needs to get done.
A drippy optician, sniffling while squinting at a computer that doesn't work.
She pulls back the moth-eaten curtains and discovers a world that's forgotten she exists.
They've recruited an unfunny comedian to hand out flyers for their comedy club. People will be sure to come.
Light breaks in waves against my brain.
Why can't they get off the elevator first before breaking into a very loud, very public fight?
He asks me to help matchmake for him. I ask him what qualities he's looking for. "Friendly," he says, "happy, enthusiastic, happy to see me." I think about taking him to an animal shelter, but I don't share my thoughts; he's in too much pain to stand any teasing.
The long-distance dance is underway, and I think of us as two fairies darting around a ring of mushrooms. The fairy dust will at some point evaporate, I have little doubt of it, but for the time being it's fun to flit around and pretend the night will last forever.
Days so long and hot, the minutes drone by.
They are reassured by their own petty grievances. It means they don't have more serious problems in their lives.
Opening the cupboards in my head to find stories.
A swamp that's both noisome and strangely beautiful, with its stunted trees and eerie fruit.