Category Archives: Clocks

Time flies.


You were my anchor. Or something heavy. Like carbon diamonds. Like solid gold handcuffs and the roots of a tree. The roundness of the earth, and the weight of the sky. You were muscle. You were the heaviest bone, the spine of a book. I locked you in a cabinet of memories and vodka shots. I stole photographs of you. Like road maps. Like bullets. Like astronomy lessons from the ancients. Like the time I watched you watch yourself in the mirror, polarized by the elements and charged like a magnet.


Going down with the one-up-man-ship.

Black stars, she said, must be invisible.

To us? I asked.

We can’t see them.

But we know they’re there.

I guess I don’t know what you mean by invisible.

This was a typical conversation. Intelligence overwhelmed by passive aggression.

Something completely ambiguous captured in a box. With a flag. With a bomb.

Stars, I said, aren’t there for our benefit. They’re just there, no matter what.

She shook her head and smiled. You’re wrong.

I crossed my arms.

She kept smiling.

A tiny explosion. A disagreement agreement.

Do Women Mature Faster Than Men?

The guys shook their heads. Most of them were still single, still incredibly unaware of their not-yet slowed metabolism. Living with a woman was akin to surrendering to whatever that feeling was that that made them want to curl up for a nap at the lake, or quit cigarettes, or lose interest in their flip cup tournaments. The feeling that had taken over the women. At this moment, it was unnecessary. It was unimaginable.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]


Everything I write is about you.

Logic games in the ocean.

If I could do it all over again I would.

But I know me. Me, in reverse, would never do it.

(It’s not fate. Its’ just that my free will is as predictable as July in New York is hot.)

If I could, I would. But the would can’t happen, so I guess I just won’t.

Make-ing Up Is Hard to Do

Later, my boyfriend came stumbling down my hall drunk and looking for me. I could hear shouting. When I opened my door, he leaned against the post and smiled.

His face was covered in makeup. His cheeks were coated in pink rouge and his lids were smeared with silver charcoal paste. Mascara was smudged below his eyes. His mouth had a layer of cherry lipstick.

My jaw dropped. “Are you wearing my roommate’s glitter?”

“You bet your pale ass I am.”

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Welcome home.

We feel so domestic it’s practically undomestic. Maybe if we embrace being a couple, living on the Upper West Side, eating sandwich halves at the kitchen table, falling asleep before midnight, it will transform us. I’m not going to keep the sabbath. I’m not going to keep up with Joneses. That’s okay. We live quietly, for now. We drink less and eat more. We smile over the hum of the dishwasher, our faces glowing with an l.e.d. flush. Domesticity is overrated. Long walks to the park are picture-perfect. The sidewalks are chalked with little pawprints and baby carriage wheels. We practice the pull-out method. We steam our vegetables and take the batteries out of the smoke alarm when the fish burns in the oven. Welcome home. Life in a vacuum cleaner hose. Pass the sugar, please. Life in a stasis.