The things she owned were red. All shades, pastel to fiery and deep maroons. The front door opened on a room painted white, accented solely by these things. Entering this room gives one an altogether overwhelming sense of having lost their ability to see colors, save for red.

Continue reading…

That card, that fucking card, was still on the counter. The light above the oven cast grim shadows on the counter, which was littered with receipts and invitations, a hundred restaurants in New York that had prepared food for her or that desperately wished to. The card lay by itself, made visible by its color, a wash of purple and pink balloons, glitter strewn about the edges. She’d scribbled “Eliza” on it and began a halfhearted message, “so proud to be your”, but couldn’t move past that next word. The word. That was three weeks ago. It sat just as she left it, hurrying out the door for dinner in SoHo followed by a date at the opera. Not that kind of date. Just the kind that you track in your planner. If she had a planner. She moved heavily toward the fridge to hunt for leftovers, dragging her hand over the counter. The card slid noiselessly off the edge, landing with a slap in the trash can below.

Continue reading…

In the golden days of social networks—Friendster, Myspace, the early days of Facebook—notifications as we now know them were in their infancy. Mobile push notifications and realtime alerts were mere figments in the imaginations of innovative engineers and social scientists. Exchanges on these networks were largely one way, and leaving a message on somebody’s Myspace or Facebook “wall” required you to all but follow up yourself if you expected a reply.

Continue reading…

Who drove those cars? Who built that house? Who lived in it? Did the owners drive those cars? When did they move from Missouri to Montana? Or was it Montana to Missouri? Who took the photo? Is the photographer alive? Is the house in Missouri? Is it in Montana? When was the photo taken?

Continue reading…

One, two, three; the transformers blew in succession down the road. For a moment we watched fireworks, washed blue and white across the hillside. The lights flickered then died. The stars of Hollywood Hills dim for the night.

Continue reading…