My cheeks tingle from grinning like a fool after a whirlwind hour spent planning our fictional wedding in the group chat.
I was not selected by the selective service and didn’t need to move to Canada to avoid Vietnam.
I’m five and blonde. She’s three and brunette.
It was 40 degrees Celsius in Abuja.
Our daily morning destination, Mount Davidson, is San Francisco’s highest natural point.
Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope was the first movie I saw in a theater.
“Cash.” Harsh words, eyes menacing behind a balaclava.
“Did you close the garage door?”
Artificial blue glimmers pale around me.
"Why have you moved back to town?"
Careful, I think, recalling yesterday’s shower, when I slipped and jammed my left shoulder.
When I plug in my earphones, all I can listen to is a cacophony of noises.
I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the hot water.
“I need to get out of the fucking city,” I complain, and ten minutes later you’ve booked a campsite.
The setting: A neighborhood softball game.
“Watch those lights off the coast,” my mom instructs.
We hear a thump in her bedroom. We’ve been here before.
My neighbor tells me about the fitness app that’s helped her lose nine pounds and her real estate showings . . .
I was crazy about Vicky, but at 13, I’d never asked a girl to go steady.
Green-fringed red curtains hang motionless in the sky and reflect in the lake, framed by purple and stars.