by Laura Winnick
Phoebe and I meet up at a bar that’s too crowded for us to go fully inside, let alone talk to one another. We lock eyes and exit. It keeps happening that I don’t want to be where most people want to be.
We idle outside, November’s temperature dropping, Phoebe propping her compact dancer’s body on the frame of her bike, and me, stamping around, trying to feel something.