Not a Brooklyn morning.

The house stood like a deck of cards. And it swayed. Just ever so lightly, the wind wobbled its frame, barely planted in the sandy grass. Yet it stood, as it had for a sweep of decades. It was small—just a few rooms dispersed over two stories of drywall and wooden beams. And where the salty Carolina air hadn’t stalked, the smell of mildew lingered. Read More.

Sometimes it all comes down to collars.

He was wearing a black turtleneck that was too short at the waist, but the way the collar crawled up the back of his neck and bunched right under his hairline was perfect. The girl sitting across from him was wearing almost the same thing, but the collar of her sweater scooped more. They smiled at each other above their collars. Their giggles got trapped in the ribbing. Read More.