Someone Else’s Underwear

When he handed dirty underwear to me that sticky, Brooklyn spring morning - I was crouched naked next to his bed, fishing through my over-sized purse for concealer. It was 8:26am, and down the street, the M train screeched to a stop at the Knickerbocker platform. Shit, I mumbled - fumbling through makeup brushes. I'd... Continue Reading →


It’s 8:30pm on a Sunday when a call from an unknown number pierces my eardrum. Blocked Caller, it reads. What sneaky bastard did I ghost off Tinder? Something about the loneliness of a New York Sunday persuades me to answer. “Hello,” I say, putting on my Publicist coo.   A surprised voice: “Lindsey?” Christ, I... Continue Reading →

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