
First Date Formula from an Armchair Anthropologist
Ann walked him the ten minutes to his apartment in the opposite direction of hers—chivalry isn’t dead, folks.
Ann walked him the ten minutes to his apartment in the opposite direction of hers—chivalry isn’t dead, folks.
When we pass the Toyota with someone eating a chicken sandwich all wrapped up in white paper, I throw up my hands.
“Is the whole Midwest eating something but us?”
A trickle becomes a torrent; a drop in a bucket becomes a catastrophic flood.
A lot has changed since I was here in the Midwest.
We could’ve seen the excessive nail-marks in the wall as holes, but we chose to see them as opportunities—convenient holders for tiki umbrellas during our tropical-themed party.
To me, “roommate” means something even stronger than “friend.”
Folksy places have their dark side.
As the days now grow shorter and the nights darker, I try to let the metaphor of autumn give me hope instead of melancholy.
The laughter flowed freely, as if the devastation of the last few days had dammed it up until it burst from us all at once.
Roommate night has sustained us through breakups, engagements, angst, hopes, and now even a pandemic.