Phone. Wallet. Keys. A modicum of dignity. An ocean of guilt. For me, the humiliation of Bobby Chandler beating me up in fourth grade. For her, a grandmother’s dictum that life is short, eat dessert first.

Ours is the number three town for artisanal pickling.  Also, the number four town for handlebar mustaches. And that’s in the nation, coast to coast, Brooklyn included.

Please, God, let Timmy get a single. Not a double. Not a triple. Just one measly grounder over second base, I beg You. Not that it’s gonna be easy. No, I wish I could say we’re dealing with a not-to-be-denied, future-Pete-Rose hustling hunk of raw boyhood, consisting of nothing but skinned knees, scabbed elbows, black eyes, and grit.

The first time we met, at a Fuck-Your-401k party a week after I turned twenty-three. The first time we hooked up, that very night, because why the hell not?

  People no longer smell sulfur when they see me. A papaya vendor at Hangman’s Market takes a sudden interest in the depths of a coin purse. A bank clerk’s posture stiffens with dignity and fear. A young man seizes me up and dismisses me as a possible competitor for any female he would seek to bed.

Some freaks sleep when they go to bed. No tossing and turning. No dread. No rehashing bad choices and personal humiliations. No plotting endless revenge. Such monsters can’t be trusted.

A squat lumpy figure flung the door wide and told the Pope to get his ass out of the rain. He was dressed in wrinkled khakis, tassled loafers, and a stained polo shirt sporting the frozen hourglass that was Purgatory’s logo.

My boyfriend hasn’t told me everything. This very morning, two hours from now, in a tiny windowless conference room stinking of burnt coffee, stale dress socks, and despair, he’ll confess more to three perfect strangers in rumpled Men’s Wearhouse suits than he’s ever revealed to me.

You decide to do it yourself. Drill down to the studs. Uncover the layers. The hidden flaws. The unacceptable conditions people find ways to endure day to day, that they say they're going to fix, now that it's spring.

“Your mother’s batshit crazy,” said Sister Loretta

“Madam’s not from the Valley, poor dear,” explained Sister Carmel. “That’s the problem. Your mother’s not grounded like we are. My family has lived here forever.”

Sister has never sought recognition for her sacred work, but those afflicted with childlessness find her. They send heartrending letters. They send aged Manchego and Jamón. They send exquisite rosaries of rare wood and bone.

A step on the basketball court. At least seven sets of keys. Innumerable sunglasses. One time, my underwear. Well, maybe more than once. It was a bone of contention with my boyfriend at the time.

Jason dropped to one knee. Long Point lighthouse flashed green. Across the harbor, the sun dipped behind Telegraph Hill. On the Truro side of the bay, the sunset’s reflection set fires in the windows of the mansions on the bluffs. Stranded on the beach, Colby’s skin burned.

Phone. Wallet. Keys. A modicum of dignity. An ocean of guilt. For me, the humiliation of Bobby Chandler beating me up in fourth grade. For her, her grandmother’s admonition that life was short, eat dessert first. A wad of ones, enough to tip a reasonably competent stripper.

Before this first week? I was the popular one. I was always going out. Determined to have a good time. To connect. But when authorities announced the quarantine, the very first thing my boyfriend and I did was seal the doors and windows with Saran Wrap.

The medic wanted to ask the yodeling protester whether protests were always like this, but he didn’t want to betray he was a rookie or be perceived as casting negative judgment on the chaos.

Alexander threw a funeral banquet to mourn the loss of his virility. Half-naked young men wearing black…

You’re the one that won’t tell. You’ll pull on your boots and button your chin strap. You’ll salute and say, sir…

You’re the last one standing.  You get the tears and the cheers, the hugs and the accolades.  You get to say how it all went down. The blood washes off.  The bones knit.  The muscles heal.  Tickertape parades follow.  

Dr. Cabot Mahler discovered a door deep in the bowels of Boston City Hospital while hunting for a spare bed to take a brief nap between shifts.