So Thirsty

by Rachel Harrison

I don’t know where all my missing socks go, but wherever they are, I hope they’re happy.

I left that morning thinking, This is the kind of woman I am. The kind who takes a lover. The kind who drinks strong French press coffee.

I don’t really desire my life, but I’m reluctant to leave it. There’s comfort in the mundane, safety in the routine. In waking up and knowing exactly what my day will look like.

You never feel old enough, until the day you don’t feel young enough.

You love a tragedy.” “Maybe that’s why I’m friends with you.” “Hey,” she says, eyes wide and glassy. Hurt.

“My only regret in life is that I didn’t know you sooner.”

The days it’s most critical for me to feel good about myself are the days it seems most impossible.

It is very, very awkward to interrupt group sex,

I’m not obsessed with tragedy. I’m obsessed with choice. How one decision can lead to catastrophe.

I’m not special enough to hold my own husband’s interest, but an ancient vampire will watch me sleep.

Was that romantic? Or was it deeply messed up?

“You’re the one who’s always listening to those podcasts and watching serial-killer documentaries. Pick up any hot tips?” “Yeah. Don’t kill people.”

How do you even know if you still love someone for who they are, or if you love them out of habit?”

Aging isn’t just about our bodies decaying while we’re still inside them. It’s about living with the accumulation of experiences.

Because you’re a—” “A monster?” “A man was what I was going to say.” He laughs. “Even worse!”