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He commissioned me to do his dirty work–to write his letters, to pay his bills, to do everything that he knew he could do, but simply refused.

When I was in high school, my favorite dessert to buy in the cafeteria was Colonel Crunch: vanilla and chocolate ice cream bars covered in a cookie crunch. My favorite. Haven’t had one in awhile, but I miss them, and I need to make a point to eat one soon.

Meanwhile, she did this. Meanwhile, he did that. Meanwhile between their meanwhiles, they were eating dinner at a fancy restaurant, looking at each other through the bottom of shot glasses. Meanwhile, I was sitting at home, thirsty.

Geometric: a word not appearing in my vocabulary.

There’s a typhoon in your mind, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it from wrecking and spreading and becoming quite contagious.

We took a ferry to the island where the seagulls soar above beachhatheads and the waves crash against manicured toenails. We were happy there, hugging each other in the water, playing air guitar on the shoreline, and then the next summer we didn’t talk at all.

Came to my door, selling, and there were magazines and cookies and candles, so I didn’t know what to do or what to buy and, then, I wasn’t sure what to wear.

She defended her, and I defended him, and he defended his dog, and I defended my aunt, and my aunt’s dog defended the entire house.

There’s a photo of him at the beach, on his knees, digging his hands into the soft sand, making a sandcastle with his best friend’s child. I keep staring at that picture, keep looking at his knees. His white knees. The knees that get close to mine every night, miles away from that ocean.

When he wanted his disciples to pass the ball, they did. It became customary for him to always get the ball, to land the lay-up. Long live that team.