I’ll miss you, I whisper, my head on his shoulder. I’ll miss the life we created. I hear him sigh, his breath hitting the top of my head. You were happy sometimes, right? I was happy lots of times. You don’t think – he pauses. You don’t think one day, you’ll only remember the bad... Continue Reading →
You said "take them all" when I left, which made us both smile, through gritted teeth. Keep the couch, I offered. When you didn't respond: YOU’RE WELCOME, I enunciated. You hate this couch, you said. It reminded you we had no money. You called it the ‘cum-couch’. It belonged to college students. Of course it’s... Continue Reading →
You know what I love about America, you said, while we walked the Spanish cobblestone in Seville. What? I grinned, my head bobbing on your shoulder. How loud you all are, you mused. Not even just in your speech – but in your clothes, too. You pointed to a group of tourists, gawking lazily near... Continue Reading →
Lindsey Hall Writes 