AnonDesu

She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes. We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case. "Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren'

She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes. We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case. "Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren'

Steve, having been told just minutes before that the Miskatonic U Film and Photography and Paranormal Investigation Society board was going clubbing that night, had reached a dilemma.  He wasn't the kind to go clubbing, for one thing, on account of it being "too mainstream."  That, and the fact that the grand total of his dancing experience was the one time he asked Sally Michaels to prom.  He was turned down. "Yeah...I don't think I'll be going," Steve said into his camera phone.  That is, a vintage 1980s camera that doubled as a phone, not a cell phone with a camera in it.  "I, uh, have things to do tomorrow morning.  I mean, I'd love to,

I was born under the slanted red tile roofs of Phuoc Loc Tho and the TK Plaza. I spent my summers shaded under the Sun Yat Sen Bridge with a cigarette butt in the corner of my mouth and well-worn dice rattling in my palms. My winters were warmed by pho and bibimbap, from dingy little shopfronts with tables browned by endless cups of oolong tea. Those nights, I spent in the pool halls and karaoke bars of Garden Grove Boulevard, until, full of sake and sochu, I'd sit on the curb and stare, half in wonder, at giant Chinese characters I couldn't read, writ large in neon, as if I could feel my ancestors speaking to me in a tongue I could hardly un