Vignette III


The first thing you feel is the scald.

Before the automatic doors part, it barrels into the airport and clocks you in the kisser.

“Phoenix in July,” I sigh. “An infinite sprawling meth lab. The Fin de siècle of American anti-intellectual exceptionalism. A slight-of-hand orchestrated by the real estate industry’s inside joke division, cackling at the stupidity of a middle-class who paid ballooning prices to live so far from fresh water or shade.” Continue reading

Vignette II


“I am so over meth,” she exclaimed, without a hint of irony.

Her teeth, occasionally radiant but mostly dulled and frayed from years of foreign deposits inhaled, shone semi-bright in the glimmer of the two-p.m. sun. It was brisk, but not chilly. She was warm, but still cruel.

Neither of us had desk-jobs, so we were free to meander and dip in-and-out of epiphany as we saw fit during working hours. She draped herself in a grey cardigan with cigarette burn-marks tied haphazardly around her neck.

“How could someone work so hard to accomplish so little?” Continue reading