Writer, mostly of scripts, also of essays, occasionally of short fiction. Terrible speller.
My shirt is neatly folded on the stool, demurely hiding my panties and leggings. From the exam table where I sit, paper crinkling on the inhale, crushing on the exhale, the olive knit looks alive, a patch of moss growing a bed of green atop a metal blowdown. I wore it for our first date, when I met Alex at the airport and he presented a notebook wrapped in butcher paper emblazoned with the nickname he’d called me on the phone every day for months: “Pookie.”