Four Weekends and a Funeral

by Ellie Palmer

“Are you a lawyer?” “No. I’m a carpenter.” “Like Jesus?” An irritated breath passes through his teeth. “No, like custom Nordic furniture.”

I could authentically claim that identity as my own, like people who ran a marathon six years ago and bring it up in every conversation like it’s eternally who they are.

imagine the things I could accomplish if I could think about anything other than you: my favorite person.”

“I’m only your favorite new person.” “No, you’re not,”

I’m just me—literal scars and all—and he’s looking at me like I’m enough. Like I’m everything.

“Just know that I have curly hair and can’t wake up with it looking cute. It’s impossible.”

a boundary you don’t reinforce isn’t a boundary at all.”

we’ve never met a bulky, chiseled man who could resist fetishizing what he was depriving his body of to stay so bulky and chiseled.