I can’t help feeling that other people had better reasons for their breakups than we did. (This is characteristic of me, Drew would say, the way I am always comparing. How can you be happy if you’re constantly measuring your life against the lives of others? And not even examining, he would say.

I'm writing this letter to tell you some things you might not know about your writer-in-residence, Henry Marks. Some you may already know. If you've read Private George Johnson, his first novel, 

Lexy knew better than to turn around. The swings were twisted up to the steel frame, the soles of her flip-flops planted in the dust.

I have short hair and under my strong brows, two honest Indian-bead eyes. My face is subtle, fretful, and quick. But my flesh is weak and my spirit uncertain and by now the legend written across my smile must evidently be “Tread on me.” The awful part of it is, I noticed even before he asked me how to get to thirty-fourth street that he was definitely not a type you go out with. 

Seamus lived in Wheaton, Maryland, in the last house on a quiet street that dead-ended at a county park. He’d bought the entire property, including a rental unit out back, at a decent price. This was after the housing market crashed but before people knew how bad it would get—back when he was still a practicing Christian Scientist, still had a job and a girlfriend he’d assumed he would marry. 

Markle followed Ernie down the ladder to the liberty launch and they elbowed through their crowded shipmates to the starboard combing. 

Many of us demand a living wage. Others demand health insurance. At least one of us demands some dress-code wiggle room.