On FDR Drive, I took a picture of some balloons, tied together and forgotten, drifting towards the highway.
I bought a coffee this afternoon, and it’s sitting near my bed, still untouched, this evening.
The kittens have decided my window is the best window, and demand to be let in in the early morning to perch on my side table, abandoned by a housemate in my last and final Upper West Side apartment.
The section of the book I’m writing now is scary and scary and scary and I don’t know who to tell about it, so I’m telling you.
“I need to change my ticket,” I say to the only person there, a woman wearing glasses with chunky purple frames and eye shadow that matches. She looks at my passport, wiggles her fingers at me to hand her my credit card.
“You know you could have done this online,” she says, handing me a receipt.
“It’s important for me to do in person,” I say, as she spins her chair away from me, Israeli for we are done here.”
My short story, “The Bullet,” is up now at Atlas and Alice.