the face Jake Gyllenhaal makes

upcoming in Berkeley Fiction Review

He’s right about these obsessions coming in waves. I don’t give a shit about Jacob Elordi or the Kardashians or any of it until someone catches my eye and I feel as if we’re tethered. Parasocial relationships, I learn, is the name for this. It has also been called loneliness.

I start having dreams about Florence Pugh holding a seance with period blood that frees women from our bodies and we fly over cities of people weeping and dancing and murdering. 

Another in which The Hot Priest from Fleabag coaches me through a relay race of beautiful people eating olives in a thunderstorm. 

I try to explain to that it’s all about facial expressions, how I fall in love with them.