American Summer
Summer is a tiring toy, a Barbie doll with one pretty outfit and no aspirations. My date gives me watermelon vodka, handing me the cup firmly like a mother pushes a thermometer into a sick child. It tastes of the pink underneath a flaked fingernail. The slick, green eyelids of the women in the streets are convincing me I’m bisexual, though I realize I’d quickly lose interest, because I’m the type to arrange a bouquet of flowers for you and resent you for taking them. I’m the type to drown in the bead of condensation on a leaf. My face is soaked in nervosity, a fleshy towel needing a wringing, and everyone is saying, “I’m here to party and I am worthy,” and I tell myself I want to be worthy of more important things, but really, it’s a defense mechanism. My date says, “you need to socialize,” and gives me more watermelon vodka. It’s a day for the sun to intensify the smell of urine at the base of a fire hydrant. It’s a day for mailing out our desires in black envelopes. We’d almost be having fun, if it weren’t for the incomprehensible stillness of our chests, our hearts drained like frightened squid.
- An Interview with Abigail Raley, Author of Wet Specimen - May 29, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora edited by Holly Mason Badra - May 29, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora edited by Holly Mason Badra - May 28, 2026



