The heavy door slammed like the hatch of a submarine before descending under water.

Tokador. When I say the word, there’s hesitation in my voice that I can’t help as soon as the first consonant leaves my tongue.

When I got the phone call the third time Daveonte was shot, I knew it was the last. Still, I held my breath.

Busted furniture. Building materials. Car guts. Then a few feet away, loads more: old clothing, broken toys, soiled diapers.

On the phone, you tell me you were frozen, then brought back to life. The freezing shrunk you and stretched you, and you became ugly.

You will be twenty or twenty-one or twenty-two, no younger than nineteen, no older than twenty-four.

I was looking for Samuel Bernstein’s novel, Lulu, at The Strand, a giant stack of books teetering in the crook of my right arm.

We found our home driving through the neighborhood adjacent to where I used to live when I was single.

I have spent the last couple of weeks surveying online discussion forums populated by self-identified “incels,” a community of categorically straight men who claim their “involuntary celibacy” as a condition of oppression.