Expiration Dates

by Rebecca Serle

newly single—but not in a rebound way—and

Murphy was never interested in anything canine. It is my genuine belief that he is a 1940s banker who was once cursed by a witch to live in a dog’s body. He sniffs almost nothing and is appalled by the game of fetch. You want me to catch a ball? With my mouth? I imagine him saying. How uncivilized.

“To meet the right person, to be with someone I want to see in the morning and naked. To not be afraid to have a bad day around them. To be happy, I guess.”

Murphy walks over to Hugo at the door. He looks up at him. “Hello,” Hugo says. “I hope you’re having a pleasant day, Murphy.” Murphy and Hugo get along mostly because they treat each other like polite strangers. Hugo gives Murphy all the space he requires and, in turn, Murphy doesn’t ask that Hugo treat him like a dog.

It’s hard to hold on to people the older we get. Life looks different for everyone, and you have to keep choosing one another. You have to make a conscious effort to say, over and over again, “You.” Not everyone makes that choice. Not everyone can.

“We could stay up late and eat tons of sugar.” “We’re not twelve.” “We’re not?” He clears his throat. “Well, that explains the sex.”

There is nothing more terrifying than lying in a hospital bed and knowing your mom can’t fix it. That she can’t make it better.

her life with Joel was narrated with happenstance instead of intention,

If I can’t be healthy, I do not want to pretend I am. I want the ease that comes from acknowledging that I’m not. I want the truth.

Whose job is it to look out for our own happiness. Us, or the people who love us? It’s both, of course. We owe ourselves and each other. But in what order?