Index

The heat wave broils Manhattan, sunlight ricocheting between glass buildings and residents scrambling to find the next cool oasis. We fight our way two blocks south to an air conditioned corner at the bar, new and shiny but with ambitions of authenticity. He says, you seem taller, and you know what he means. Summer lifts you at the nape of your neck, pushes you from the ground up, we can call it summer but what I mean is happy. There’s a breath in my lungs that hasn’t fit there for ages, now it runs around buck wild, leaping against my rib cage and tickling my senses. I read a story on the plane yesterday that made me cry, and I think that’s something to believe in: I have failed at so many things I forget to count my wins, but it’s like I see them now, piled high around me. I told you I’d take on the world some day, didn’t I? Well we start somewhere.

Now watch me.