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"You should check out Graber!" My good friend Cath had once said. We were both drunk under a row of glittery string lights, just outside a brewery that I can't remember the name of. "Graber?" "Mm-hmm!" Cath tilted her glass back, smudged with sweat and fingerprints. Cold alcohol ran down her chin and dripped onto her white linen shirt. "Went there a couple years back. Nice place. Good food." "It's called Graber?" I asked, wiping the midsummer sweat from my eyebrows. "G-R-A-B-E-R," Cath spelled it out for me, "One B, not two. Look it up for m...
It takes about five minutes of crying over Zoom with Hazel before my internet goes haywire and my laptop crashes. Hazel's bony face, covered in a plastery layer of tears, still lights up the screen for something like four seconds before her image disintegrates into a million pixelations and my screen goes black. I desperately smash the keypad, and when that doesn't wake it up, I turn to vigorously shaking it. Fifty-year-old piece of crap. I slap the computer closed and lifelessly toss it to the left of my couch, beyond worrying if I'll break...
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