“ Well, Al, I see you’re still wearing sweats.” The brothers had somehow managed to score a corner table at Starbucks. Zig leaned forward, one hand clutching his soy latte, his legs crossed at the ankles. Lounging against the window, one arm slung over the back of his chair, Al fingered the drawstrings of his tan hoodie. “I like it,” he shrugged. “It’s warm.” “You've been wearing that since the eleventh grade,” Zig pointed out. “You need a new outfit? I can buy you one.” Zig’s own wardrobe consisted of a gray sport coat with burgundy lining, gray vest, and navy scarf, all of which might as well have had the tags still attached. “It’s not about the money, man.” Al reached across the table and picked up his caramel mocha. “I just like it.” Suddenly, they heard the sound of a loud car horn. Zig glanced through the window behind Al and saw a stretch limo attempting to turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Other drivers protested this maneuver, as did a throng of pedestrians. “How about the exe...
I write to remember, to question, and to connect. Here you’ll find essays, stories, and fragments of life — all the ways I try to make sense of the world, one sentence at a time.