One day during breakfast, the usual silence broke.
The recipe for a perfect crème brûlée starts like this: Step 1: Pick a ripe and fair-skinned mademoiselle […]
Like the trees we gained more rings, and found ourselves at the park.
My favourite things have always been stuck in a state of in-between.
Lynn looks desperately for things to love; she looks desperately to see truth in all the arguments Anne has ever given her. Again, she fails to completely love herself.
We meet for dinner every Monday night and lately I’ve come to hate it.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear- I’m sorry. What’s your name again?”