I’m five and blonde. She’s three and brunette.
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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.
Two decades of agony for a single piece of printer paper, annotated and signed, ceremoniously declaring the basic facts of my body.
The hill on Alpine Road looked steeper than I remembered.