When I left Anhui for Shanghai, at the innocent age of seventeen, the recruiter told me that the theme of the hotel where I was going to work was “rustic farm life.”
One December 24, Superstorm Mindy came in from the Atlantic and walloped America. Nowhere got it worse than New York City. That Christmas Eve day, Louise Wexler had planned to ride public transit all the way from her apartment in...
Holland spent Wednesday building a privacy fence for a tiresome academic couple in Barton Hills. Pressure-treated posts, horizontal cedar boards, stained and sealed, it was his third that week.
The hospital was uptown on First Avenue, big, pale, and brand new, its atrium lobby with windows two stories high. Ivy held her son’s hand crossing bright squares on a white floor.
Soon the first cars will arrive for Mass. I can picture them floating down the streets of our city, this suburb of Los Angeles populated by gladsome old people and families with small children and a murky middle swath to which my husband...
The King’s Cross streets are loaded, Thursday night miniskirts and Chelsea boots, pastel Hackett polo shirts and Stone Island wear, people coughing the odd virus or two in my direction.
Not long after Stewart vowed to delete Grindr and Jack’d and every other dating app he’d ever downloaded, Anders Nyberg emailed to say he’d moved back to Maine and would be coming down to New York for three days.
The pilot and I stayed at a cheap, extended-stay lodge by the small-craft airport during the first six months we were together. I was really young. Twenty-two. About to turn twenty-three, but I was just twenty-two.
Back then, I spent my hours at church studying the trails of His varnished blood and the seepage of His emaciated gut. The crucifix hung high above the celebrant’s chair, and the ribs looked so sharp they could cut.
