Sushi for 1

I sat at the sushi bar alone tonight. Usually I’m here with M and A, but they had a prior commitment this evening and so, for the Monday night ritual of sushi—it’s just me. And that’s okay. I sip my Sauvi B and watch the Reds

Eatin' Hydrangeas

The quiet of the single life— It’s funny how that internal storm, that steady rolling of the tornado hooks, and green sky, and hail, and force— how it silently, ominously, churns overhead. and then it just drops. Accompanied by the shriek of the siren that sends the 5th graders

More than spit & lips

I walked home from Inman Park tonight. I had a date. The walk was light and cool, as the Atlanta air sometimes is in early spring. I walked the beltline to the Stone Mountain Trail, to N. Highland, and made my way on to downtown. The lips of the men

Just a pen in the glovebox

We bombed Iran in recent weeks. The U.S. I mean— I heard this news as I contemplated whether or not I’m brave. Sometimes I feel brave. And sometimes I just feel like a negative, grouchy, yoga trying, begrudging gratitude journaling, middle-aged, graying beard, green eyed, bald man,

1/2 Dead Petunias Wear Rouge

There are half-dead petunias growing in the planter pot, on the little table, on my balcony, in the A. They live with a half-dead verbena, who is also coming back for the season. My great aunt Marcelle would call these “volunteers,” because they just grow right back of

Blue Ribbons & Ground Beef

For Mack The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo was in full swing this weekend. The smell of ranch life. (No, it is not a pleasant smell, but it’s a smell we all know.) Watching these tiny specks of kids showcase giant steers that could trample them at any moment

Blackberry Winter

My cursor blinks on a passage from 37: Green is the color of poison. That’s what I think to myself as my chartreuse-filled irises stare back at me through my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Green is the color of poison. I feel like poison sometimes. Damaged. Toxic.

Lack (& baked beans)

You know what? I’ve always picked from lack. (I know I always start with a question. But we all like a little rhythm, don’t we? Rhythm is sexy. –grins) No—not slack. Lack. People don’t know what that means when you say it. They’ll even ask,

Lightning bugs, breadcrumbs and sand...

I have the fortitude of a sandcastle. That’s what I thought today. One crashing wave away from disaster. This beautiful, temporary structure that’s just here for a short while. Until death by wave, or shitty stamping kid.   We only get so many glasses of champagne— or phone calls

A more lovely drink in Inman Park

“I love you.” The most profound words in the English language. The words we crave. The words we search to hear as we move alone through the beats of the city streets into our Uber and make our way home—searching, looking, listening— The streetlights passing out the window like

She hears us

I read a quote tonight, and I loved it: “She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.” I loved it. It’s empowering. It’s bold. But— Do we think bravery is all the universe listens to? I think it’s dense to

Joy & Tonic

My blood orange gin and tonic fizzes on the kitchen counter. The orange tint of the cocktail hisses in the stillness of the waning hour of Friday night. I sit alone at the bar. The bubbles push their way to the top of my Aunt Nancy’s fox-hunt-pattern