The back of strangers’ cars is a sea of lost oddities from ships headed for rocky shores.

You lose things you don’t care about. I guess that’s true.

Or maybe I was moving too fast, and my bag was too full.

Maybe it’s more true that you don’t look for the thing you don’t care about.

You know, once it’s lost.

This month, August, I thought I lost my mind. Syrupy days, rainy endings, and such can do that to a girl, but this weekend I went looking for it.

On the first pages of a leather bound notebook I got for my birthday I made a list of things I found in my house that make me feel real and safe and comfy.

Real. Safe. Comfy.

Here is that list:

• My Books

• The quilt on the wall above the desk

• My cat

• The papasan chair

• Showers

• Loud music

• My arts and crafts

• Lying upside down on my bed

• My open bedroom window

• Phone Calls

• You’ve Got Mail

• Bridget Jones’ Diary

• Hugh Grant

• Writing Letters

• A clean house

• Maggie Rogers

• My neon yellow Lady Gaga hoodie

• Socks

And my new water bottle. The color is called cloud pink and I put a sticker of a girl that looks like me under the logo.

She has star eyes. Just like me.

I was telling her about all the things I wanted to finish.

Where is the time?

Where is the spark of genius?

She replied, “It’s hard to be a person.”

I laughed, because it’s true.

It almost seems better to be a deer, or a little ant, even if you get caught in headlights or flicked off the table a hundred times. Little ants and deer don’t know what wifi is? Or that you have to call the wifi people every year and threaten to cancel the plan, for them to lower the price. Maybe those towers make a lot of noise. I guess the animals probably notice that.

We don’t really have bugs in this house. No silver fish or spiders that I see creeping around, spinning webs in corners that belong to me. I once saw a pincher bug near the tub though, and a mouse in the living room.

You don’t know how hard it is to be a person until a mouse scurries across your living room. I feel scared even writing this, as if I am jinxing myself.

Twenty mice for Tess, the universe mocks.

That’s the hard part about being a person. We make up things.

Sometimes when I’m home alone for too long, I imagine the house has become a rocket ship, drifting in space. Outside the rocket ship is volatile and unpredictable, and I don’t have a space suit anyway. The door, the airlock, becomes something I avoid.

The antidote to a busy mind is Real Housewives of New Jersey. The ladies say forget about the book, and deadlines, and maybe all your dreams too.

Relax and stay a while, baby.

I like the feeling. When you’re lost in space it can feel like no one is paying attention to you. You think, maybe I will watch TV forever, but then your grandma calls. Reminds you of why you write. Tells you she looks for something from you every Sunday.

It’s hard to be a person, grandma. She understands.

She’s probably even had a mouse in her house once or twice.

Sorry to the deer and the little ants.

XO,

Tess

I understand, I don’t like change either.

What I do like is the colder mornings. Foggy, to be exact. Is that what it’s called in landlocked states? Weather that’s like walking through lines of drying blue gray curtains, foggy.

The hair that sticks out from under my baseball cap curls up into tight ringlets, reminding me that I am twelve and thirty-four at the same time. I read somewhere that being alive is an endless cycle of gaining and losing your spark. I heard too that you stop being a child the moment you stop worrying your childhood is over. I don’t worry, but when I paint my toenails I can’t tell my age.

I wonder how often Julia Roberts feels sad. I think it might heal a nation to know. We can flash her moods across highway signs like they do with the stats on drunk driving fatalities, Amber alerts, and Ozone alerts. Julia Alerts.

JULIA IS HAPPY.

JULIA IS EXCITED.

JULIA IS QUITE SAD TODAY.

There we have it—we are not alone!

Shame she has to be sad for us to be happy in this scenario, but so it goes.

There are no digital signs along the path around the man-made lake I walk. Runners, and a group of women doing yoga on the grass, but no such signs.

I walk out of the way of the geese, and towards the end I use the dirt path that is always a bit wet because of the sprinklers. There I focus on not falling, more than anything else.

XO,

Tess

I’m tired, and so is my cat, John. He lies full out on the rug with his belly up and just out of reach from my hand. I don’t know what he did yesterday—why he’s so lazy—but moi, I had a big day. I deserve these wasted hours.

Yesterday, Maya and I went on a pilgrimage: The Colfax Pilgrimage, an eight mile walk from my house on the west side of Colfax Avenue to Maya’s house on the east side. For those of you unfamiliar, Colfax has a legendary and gritty reputation. We say it’s the heart of the city. In the end we were out from 9 am to 9:40 pm and walked a total of 9.24 miles. It was exciting, exhausting, and life changing. I bet the people on the PCT or the Camino de Santiago would say the same about their journeys.

In a zine Maya made for our trek, she wrote, “This is a cultural pilgrimage, a physical journey completed on foot. In search of moral or spiritual significance, we travel down Colfax Avenue.”

Following her mandate: I bought a bag, and incense from the witchy store. We stopped into a tattoo and piercing shop where I got my nose ring changed out. I now have a hoop, and it makes me feel even cuter. I looked at myself in the mirror of The Squire afterward and said, “I love myself.” That’s what thousands of steps can do for you.

I was also nearly moved to tears at Champagne Tiger, where Maya and I split a classic breakfast plate, because the outdoor space felt like my spiritual home. I had made punch cards for us, where we had the strangers, shopkeepers, and waiters we met along the way sign their names. The woman at 99ers used an official stamp, and the lady at the vintage store gave us a sticker.

It’s good to spend hours with your best friend, and even better if those hours are on the road. I maybe already knew this, but it was reaffirmed on Colfax. In the end, our walk did hold spiritual significance. In small ways and big ways, we experienced personal transformation—whether that meant feeling totally comfortable to a use a public restroom or letting strangers fall in love with us.

I guess you could say that Colfax was my horse therapy.

XO,

Tess

Sometimes it’s important to curl up into a ball on your bed and cry. I like to do this after a shower. With the towel still wrapped around my wet hair, and the body oil I put on my legs before they fully dried pooling at the back of my knees, I frown and the tears roll out and into my ear and onto my duvet. Some people run, or smoke. I cry.

I was a salty ball midweek when I asked myself, “Why can’t I do anything that I want to do?”

Why can’t I wake up and be out the door at 5am for a run? Why can’t I finish my novel? Why can’t I be a famous actress? Why can’t I keep up with my Substack? Why can’t I talk to strangers? Why can’t I pay off my credit card debt? Why can’t I fit into the skirt I bought from the thrift store two summers ago?

Is it this hot, hot room that is keeping me from everything I ever wanted?

I haven’t always had this room, so I think, probably not.

There must be something in The Artist’s Way or that brilliant and crazy brain of Elizabeth Gilbert about the weight of creative ambitions, the stagnation of an artist, the ego, the human drive for safety, and how it all works together like oil and water. If someone has some insight, let me know.

Am I being dramatic?

I guess things take time. Thirty-four years.

I finally got a dresser. I emptied my sock and underwear bin into the bottom drawer. Now all I have under my bed are cords. That will have to do for now.

On the subject of birthdays, I check my horoscope apps every day. What about you guys?

Co-Star tells me, “You will keep falling in love.”

I assume the cosmos mean fall in love with the sun that dips below the watercolor mountains in the distance from the park near my house where I stand to watch. Or maybe it is the afternoon storms I have come to find quite delightful (that is only if they don’t impede my pool time).

I’ve been keeping a list of “Daily Delights” inspired by poet, Ross Gay: misspoken words, strange greetings, windy hilltops, empty basketball courts, the gentle fuzzy bees in the grass where I lay, and the melted blue smoothie cup in my car.

Fall in love again and again. Heard.

In my other astrology app, Chani says I’m ready to, “conquer that to-do list at triple speed.”

Thank God.

It is especially nice to read this today, after spending almost all of yesterday watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, when really what I should have been doing is writing. And if I wasn’t going to write I could have at least done the laundry or my kitchen chore. Whatever, that was not in the stars yesterday. AND I CAN LIVE WITH THAT!

Back to my birthday, or the lead up to my birthday. I made a calendar. It is one of my favorite things to do. I draw it out in pencil and trace over it in Sharpie. I usually mess up about twice or four times, ripping pages out of the sketchbook I use, until finally I create something I can live with. This time it is a calendar of daily fun. That’s my birthday wish: one fun thing a day.

Today, maybe it will be painting, “26,” on my hand in blue nail polish. Or was it getting the black sugar latte I just finished?

I will report back on my progress. Progress. Now that is an interesting word to use pertaining to fun. Much to think about.

XO,

moi, TESS!!!!!!

P.S. What does your horoscope say today?

I think I like these things because of all the possibilities they hold. The lists. Mine looks something like this: play more basketball, finish the novel, read five Toni Morrison books, and ride my bike once a week. With anything new, there is an opportunity to change.

Finally, I can do all the things I’ve been meaning to do!

You know?

This is especially true with New Year’s. But with summer, there is a little more in the mix. There is a hot and sticky element to it. And as I’ve come to learn, nothing triggers nostalgia more than the things that are hot and sticky—not even twinkle lights in December.

I don’t remember the way my hair was on Christmas when I was thirteen, but I do remember my salt water curls that summer. I remember eating chocolate chip pancakes at the Santa Cruz Diner with my mom and dad before their workdays. I can still picture the key lime pie in the glass case near the register where we stood to pay. Afterward, I’d watch Regis and Kelly before heading out for the day with Holly. We’d ride bikes from the east side to the west side of town and back. My yellow cruiser was rusty because I kept it outside year-round. The back tire was always going flat.

Most days were spent at the beach near the middle school. Then, on Tuesdays, I’d go home for family dinner night. Our little apartment was full of aunts, their chatter growing louder with each passing glass of white wine.

Somehow, a single summer day could hold the entirety of time itself.

That’s what I hope for each June. Warm skin, warm memories, and the endless stretch of time.

I’m going to the pool after this. I’m starting my “Summer of Toni” with Sula (read along with me?). Then I’m going over to Maya’s to, as she put it, “sit outside, play games, laugh and enjoy the longest day of the year in good company.”

What do you have planned this summer? How are you going to make sure the days are long?

By the way, I’ve missed you. I’m happy to be back.

XO,
Tess

As you may have noticed, over these past few months I’ve been having a hard time keeping up with my posting schedule. Basically, all of my “brain power” is being used up by my novel, which leaves little left for Substack.

So, I have decided to pause all subscriptions until June 21st. That way you aren’t paying for content you aren’t receiving and I am unburdened by the regret and guilt of not posting. I’ll still be posting, but expect it to be every other week until then.

Now for the fun news! On June 16th at 10am, I am going to meet with a literary agent! I picked three agents I’d like to meet with, and then I was matched with one. I got my first choice!

There are three ways this could go:

1. The Networking Route: She gives me some general advice, I get eyes on my work, and I make a great connection.

2. The “Tell Me More” Route: She loves my query letter and first fifteen pages and asks to see the full manuscript.

3. The Dream Scenario: She loves the work (and me!), signs me on the spot, and hands me a million-dollar book deal.

Let’s all hope for number three—ha!

In the meantime, I am writing away. I feel stupid and clever all at once. This is the “joy” of it, I assume?

Oh! Also, I had Maya edit the first fifteen pages and it was really helpful. Someone make that girl an editor!

Anyway, that’s all I have today. See how disappointing it is? You get it now—why I need to pause?

Love you. Back to work I go :)

XO,

Tess

I just spent the weekend watching movies at Denver Film’s Women+Film festival. Over the three days I was able to screen seven movies, starting with the tender and heartfelt Cookie Queens and ending with the absolutely fabulous and infuriating Ask E. Jean. I definitely recommend seeing both.

I feel very lucky to live in a city that celebrates film.

“Vive le cinéma!” I always say.

Now on to my other great passion. My novel.

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You’d think, but here are the 10 things I did this weekend instead of writing my novel:

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I quoted my mom this weekend to my friends. I said, “my wise mother says, ‘You don’t have to live in pain.’” She’s so real for that, which is why I am going to the dentist tomorrow. My third visit this month. . . yay.

Let’s talk about my novel.

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Years earlier I'd learned that you could just ask to be taken on a trip. I had no idea that this was an option but one of my basketball teammates had done it and it worked. So, one night at dinner I turned to my grandma and asked, “Will you take me to New York?” and she said yes. It was so easy it felt like magic. So easy, I thought I’d do it again. I was primed to ask, “Paris? Without moi?”

I wrote them a letter explaining why I would be the perfect companion on their French excursion. I loved fashion and art, I spoke a little French, and I had never been to Europe.

Wouldn’t it be fun to take me to Europe?

And again, it worked. Truth is, Harvey didn’t want to go to Paris all that badly. He welcomed my excitement and suggested I take his place.

In May of 2013, my grandma and I spent three weeks in Europe—Paris to Cannes to London and back to Paris.

It’s one of the best trips I’ve taken. So much so that whenever I am at my grandma’s—sitting outside near their garden or at the dining table in the early afternoon—I’ll say, “Remember when we went to Paris?”

And then Harvey would come down from his room or office upstairs. He’d ask me how my writing was going, or if I had read or seen anything good lately. He’d tell me about a story from the Sunday paper, and then turn on the stereo in the living room.

“We were just talking about our Paris trip,” I’d say.

The clock on the wall near the dining table makes bird noises every hour. There is almost always a cat that is coming in or out the back door. Fruit sits in bowls on the counter, and there is a drawer full of tea.

It’s spring again, and Harvey has passed.

I keep thinking about how kind it is to go when the flowers are starting to bloom. Something to carry us forward. My grandma will sit in the sunshine near the garden as it comes back to life. In a few weeks I will sit next to her. I will ask, “Remember Paris?” and what I will mean is, “Thank you, Harvey.”

Love you guys,

Tess

There are days when the will to create feels impossible to tap into. Sometimes those days are strung together in a row making a perfect little week. Perfect in the way a moldy peach is. Or a flat tire. These past few days—let’s call it a week—I’ve had the darndest time writing, reading, or even cooking dinner. My hands (my mind) are too heavy to make anything.

I worry I think about myself too often. The self I am, and the self I want to be—all the while my hands are busy scrolling.

I look at old memories on Snapchat. I open my Gmail which is almost always filled with ads. I go to Instagram. Reels have taken over my days the same way TikTok once did. Can I have nothing in moderation? Serena Williams is promoting a GLP-1 company. Emma Stone is too skinny. There are these patches that cover your entire forehead that you should wear to bed so you don’t get wrinkles. Bombs and war. Elementary schools. Classified files. The Limited Too. If you start today you will have a six pack by June.

My screen time has reached new heights.

This self-consciousness is uninspiring.

So what do I do?

I’ve been taking evening walks to the shore of the man-made lake near my house. The winds have been stronger than usual. I stand at the water’s edge and imagine I’m a middle-aged woman named Helen. I don’t know why. I just like the idea. I jot sentences down in a tiny notebook. “Helen pressed her tongue against her cheek as the wind whipped her hair across her face.” “Helen used to smoke cigarettes when she lived in Hell’s Kitchen. Out west she quit.” Stuff like that.

Helen helps me get out of my way.

I notice things differently.

I’ve been taking photos on 5x zoom.

If you’re feeling slightly unhinged, here’s a list of things that might unlock some creativity in these trying times. Let the crazy, the frustrating, the intoxicating things inform the art:

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Other ways it's been cool:

• No snow in Denver (maybe uncool for the world/climate as whole, but not for girl who hates driving)

• Feeling like woman because I made Xfinity lower the cost of our WIFI and I went to the dentist for the first time in 10+ years (the woman needs two crowns, which is, say it with moi, very womanly)

• Getting the first forty pages of my novel workshopped by smarty pants in Novel class!

I’ve been in my novel workshop every Monday since Jan 12, and finally (finally?) tomorrow is the last class. My second set of pages will be workshopped. Turning pages in for people to read, dissect, and criticize is humiliating torture. Do not recommend. Just kidding. It’s fine. And necessary. And in some sick and twisted way, kind of fun at the end of the day.

Two weeks ago I posted the first set of pages I sent to my class. Well, I have received my feedback, so I am going to share that now. Enjoy, or whatever. Let me know if you agree with them. I’ll kill you. Jk (again). They said nice things.

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Friday night came and went. Saturday I spent the day watching television with Solana.

We began with the Laura Linney double feature I’d planned months back: You Can Count on Me, directed by Kenneth Lonergan and starring Linney alongside a very young, very handsome, very talented Mark Ruffalo. He plays her troubled younger brother. Laura Linney is always dealing with troubled brothers. I can count at least four across her filmography, and I haven’t even seen the rest.

I gave it 3.5 stars. Which means: I liked it.

Then Mystic River, Clint Eastwood. Before pressing play, I told Solana, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a Clint Eastwood movie.”

For good reason.

I gave it one star. Which means: I hated it.

I have taste. The stars say so.

Later that night my Google Calendar widget flashed “at a glance” for Sunday. There it was. The date.

All dates begin days before they occur. The days prior are for rehearsal. You consider what you’ll wear. You rearrange your schedule so you won’t feel rushed. You locate your lip gloss. You ask yourself whether you should shave your legs.

This time the preparation feels like care.

I told Solana I was tired at 8:30 p.m. I was asleep by ten.

Sunday morning I woke up to my cat meowing. He knows exactly when to wake me up. It’s always right before I want to. I am deeply studied. To be known, they say, is to be loved. My kitty cat j’adores moi.

I worked for few hours—reading classmates’ manuscripts and writing feedback letters—then I cleaned my room.

It’s important to leave a clean room before heading out, because having a clean room to come home to is even more important. Little bugs (you, me) who dare to venture outside deserve soft places to land on return.

I picked out an outfit. Casual, but cute. I showered, reluctantly. I hate showers, but I am a grown woman. Showering, unfortunately, ranks near the top of grown-woman obligations.

I brought my speaker into the bathroom and played a mix of Taylor Swift’s Folklore and Evermore. I have it titled “Pandemic Taylor.” Self-possessed. Evocative. That's the goal a lot of times: be self-possessed, be evocative. Other times the goal is to go crazy: be wild, be free. Then there are the times where the goal is invisibility. Tonight, it was self-possession with a touch of freedom. While washing my face, I thought, I better close the lid of the travel-sized cleanser. When I opened my eyes, the lid was already closed.

Oh.

This is what it feels like to take care of yourself.

Then I shaved my legs.

After the shower, I sat in my made-up bed until it was time to go. Reading. Writing. Waiting.

Waiting for the lotion to sink in; my hair to dry; the time to pass.

I looked at the walls in my room. I am the set designer. I tell you who I am.

I am creative. I am smart. I like tiny little weird things, and tearing pages out of magazines. I have books on my shelf I may never read. I am messy, and I am not precious about things. I have friends, and too many necklaces.

Little me would love this room. This room looks like her room. I wonder about my ideas of little me sometimes. Dates, like the one tonight, are supposed to tap into little moi—or inner moi. Are they the same? Aren’t our little inner selves mostly figment of our imaginations? We can make up anything. And our hearts swell.

Whatever the case is, I do know for a fact that my little would be shocked to know I close the lids of things.

At three o’clock I took myself to the movies. I had been waiting all weekend.

I woke up with an exorbitant amount of energy. I think it might be because I spent some time in the sun yesterday—my cheeks are tight and rosy—and that vitamin D is propelling me forward this Sunday.

Kitchen chore: done. Living room: vacuumed, swept, mopped. Meal prep: complete.

All that’s left is to open the stack of what I’ve come to call “My Envelopes” (credit cards! three W-2s—I’m worker, baby!), write this Substack, and read and respond to my Advanced Novel workshop cohort.

It's not nothing!

I thought it would be interesting to share the first section of my novel that I submitted to workshop. In two weeks, when I get the notes back, I’ll share those too.

I want to show the workshop process—how a story changes, what stays, what breaks under feedback. What makes people confused! That’s a big one in workshop. People are always confused.

The story, I’m still calling it Devotion, has evolved slightly. I’ve added a heap of new characters, and I finally have a setting I love to play in. I hope you like it. Feel free to leave thoughts in the comments. Or don’t read it at all lol—it’s eighteen pages.

Also: exciting news. I’m adding a new column to @MOI: “Moi-mmy Knows Best: 5 Recs for Your 1 Problem”.

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I’ve been sick for an entire month, but today I woke up at my best friend’s house and spent the day laughing and chilling—and I feel almost 100 percent better. Maybe it’s the vibes curing moi.

Sunny Sunday vibes. It’s warm here in Denver—maybe too warm for February—but I like it. We spent a few hours at the park, lying on blankets in the grass listening to Bad Bunny and shooting hoops. Playing HORSE.

I drank a soda called Starry. I ate strawberries and chips. Now Maya, Sean, Jeahnna, Woodli, and I are watching funny YouTube videos from the early 2000s. Soon we’ll switch to the football game, and Maya will make me a vegan burger.

Life is good.

Hope everyone is having a great weekend! If we’re reincarnated, what life do you think you’re on? I’m on my first one.

Xo, Tess

Although today I did cry while pulling into the parking lot, repeating the common phrase: “I don’t want to go! I don’t want to!”

But Maya gave me a hug and then, in the Film Crew (Sean + Maya + Tess) group chat, sent a quote of the day: “Nothing can dim the light which shines from within you.” —the actual Maya Angelou.

Anyway, I was made the break room guard—if that’s even a real thing. What I was told is that I wasn’t on the roster (cool, cool, cool), all the spots were full, and I could guard the break room. From who? I do not know.

Oh—and while I was guarding the break room, Maya and Sean got into a screening with the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

While sitting alone in said break room, I composed a list, and I thought I’d share it here.

Enjoy! And take care of yourself and the people around you 💕

10 Light-Hearted Things We Need to Come to Terms With

1. If someone puts a sticker on your back without you knowing—school-bully style—you are no more human than a lamppost.

2. Olivia Wilde may, in fact, be a voice of a generation.

3. Leg warmers actually rock—keep in the heat and are très cute.

4. Carrying around a water bottle is necessary, but also painfully annoying.

5. Movies are better when seen in a theatre.

6. All you need in the shower is 2-in-1 Head & Shoulders and a bar of soap.

7. Having taste is more important than having money.

8. Getting merch is nearly half the experience—but if the merch is bad, forget about it.

9. The neighborhood is missing a late-night smoothie shop, and it’s a crying shame.

10. A bagel is a snack, not a meal.

Then I had to stop working on the doc because I actually have a lot of other stuff to do.

Like laundry.

But I won’t get to the laundry till who-knows-when because, like I said, I’m at Maya’s, having a blessed and silly time.

I did bring with me, however, two novel excerpts from classmates that I need to read and give feedback on, chapters from Very Cold People by Sarah Manguso that I need to read, and—of course—I have to write this Substack post. Because, like I said, this Substack means everything to moi, and I would never let down my subscribers by missing a post. I love ya too much.

It might sound like I’m complaining, but I promise I’m not. Well. Except for the laundry part. I’d actually rather never do laundry again.

So. The novel.

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I wanna hold the hand inside you/ I wanna take the breath that’s true…

I hadn’t ever listened to it before. I never once thought, “Hm, the song slaps, I wonder what the rest of it sounds like.”

I guess though, if you start an album with a song like ‘Fade Into You’ you run the risk of no one ever listening to the rest of it, because everyone ends up hitting the replay button instead—I look to you, and I see nothing/I look to you to see the truth…

That changed last week, when I finally thought to listen to the whole album—So Tonight That I Might See—during a walk that turned into a drive. A drive, during which I was assaulted by the sight of a man’s butt crack.

Isn’t it interesting how beauty and butt cracks can coexist? And maybe even more so, isn’t it interesting that it is always a man’s butt crack that is interrupting the beauty of life?

The plight of man: oblivion to fresh air on open crack. Or is it something more sinister? Something that takes one—moi—out of the fairy realm which beauty builds into the cold reality of driving down Colfax1. The hum of the road just under the rhythmic beats of Mazzy Star, then all at once, the spell broke. The butt crack reigns supreme.

So what is it? Is this epidemic of man-crack a patriarchal act of dominance on the culture at large? Or is it simply just a case of loose pants?

There is a kind of confidence in freely showing crack that only someone benefiting from patriarchy can possess. This confidence says, “I don’t care.”

“I don’t care that the sun is shining through your car windows in that nice way that warms you like a cup of tea, or that Mazzy Star is pulling you into her poetry, and it feels like falling and flying. I’m going to sit here, or bend over, or reach up in such a way that shows my lower back, so you can see my crack. I don’t care and you’re welcome.”

Women do not live like this. There is seldom a time where I am witness to a woman’s butt crack, but even so, if I were, it wouldn’t be for long as most women have the decency to pull at the sides of their pants. Belt loops to women are the boot straps by which we pull ourselves up.

Unfortunately, not everyone needs to pull themselves up in quite the same way, so being subject to butt cracks is basically a part of life—like pay discrepancies, and whether or not you feel safe to walk alone at night. If women showed their butt cracks as much as men we’d be told to hold our keys—sharp side out—between our cheeks. A practice we learned from the Lifetime movies our mothers watched. Right alongside checking the backseat of our car at night and heeding the advice to never go to the second location.

But maybe it’s not that deep. Maybe men have longer cracks, looser pants, and a lack of cute belts?

Maybe the human body is beautiful, just like Mazzy Star.

Maybe I look at the crack to see the truth.

The light changes.

The song keeps playing.