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
“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
“What follows is probably bullshit,” she scoffed as she stamped her smoke out on Sixth Avenue in the sarcophagus of winter’s grip.
She paused. She held her breath. She always does before she settles into some grand thesis of note. Continue reading