I like watching documentaries, eating cake, playing Apples to Apples, hugging dogs, and talking about politics and culture. I don’t like zombies, cold, intoxicants, and being told jokes.
I looked at my mom’s face for the first time in years. Her hair was dirty, and pulled back with bobby pins. She wore a tight white tank top, and cut-off jeans. Her skin looked sore, somehow, like something had been ground into it. I knew there used to be black eyes. I steeled myself against the wave of sympathy. I couldn’t afford to be sympathetic right then.