Grant Ginder

I briefly considered throwing my salad in my brother's face -- just letting him have it, spinach and all -- but then figured that would be rude, considering I wasn't the one who had paid for it, and so I opted instead simply not to respond.

...Henrique is very much alive. But the temptation to fantasize, to imagine the thousands of bloody and gruesome ways that her ex-husband could have met his end...She wonders how Kim is conceiving of it....Donna won't give her an explanation. She prefers instead that the stranger she lies to imagine and reimagine Henrique's death on their lunch breaks, their drives home. She comforts herself knowing that, at least, for the next few hours, Kim will be killing Henrique in their mind. A thousand tiny deaths.

I'm sorry," I said. "I guess I don't know my own strength."

"What are you talking about -- that was awesome!" the bridge of his nose was all puffy and swollen and his left eye was starting to bruise. "In fact, I'm going to tell the front desk to give you a free class.

The class was divided in to three stations, and Robbie B explained eash of them to me with a g-less version of its corresponding gerund; trampin', liftin', whippin'....In liftin' I'd be doing things with weights: curling them. pressing them over my head -- the sort of shit that I'm sure people consider manual labor elsewhere, but that in New York you pay fifty-two dollars to do.