After nasty phone calls, curses hurled over the back fence, fist-shaking, and other attempts to impress him with your seriousness, you meet him at the supermarket, lose control, and punch his lights out.

Frostburns across the ridge of my nose, where the metal rim of my glasses pulled away the skin on a thirty-below night, always reminded me of how easy it was to keep warm on those nights by skiing with no haste.

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall.

eggshell: