Cave Dwelling

It's a Friday in July, and it hasn't rained yet. My window is open. It has been open for weeks now, the temperature inside my room remaining a kind of cool constant. Sometimes at night, I'll pull on a cardigan as I read in bed, but most of the time it is neither too hot nor too cool, and I think of my room as a cave of sorts. In more ways than one.

Winter was long, and summer has yet to unfurl itself across this city. I spent the winter curled under blankets with a boy, sleepy with the shared warmth and drunk on the company. Together we watched flickering screens and talked into long dark nights. We hunter-gathered supplies from the fridge at three a.m. and painted stories across each other's bodies that would settle just beneath the skin, Lascaux-bright and indelible. And when we came out after the thaw, we knew each other a little better, and understood ourselves a little less.

The weathermen say summer will happen, is going to happen. But I'm half in love with these thunderstorms, and I'm still unsure what summer will bring.


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Some things that did happen, or are happening...

I wrote a story called Fingerpainting.

a story, Robot Love, was published in the ebook 100RPM.

a story, One, Two, will be in Overheard, to be published by Salt in November.

I met, briefly, the coolest dog in the world.

I listened to this song a gazillion times...



and I received possibly the greatest wedding invite ever.