It took me, after the breakup of an eight-year relationship, a long time to learn to be single. Months later, I still measured too much coffee into the machine, and woke to a pot I knew would be cold and bitter at the end of the day. Laundry confounded me. I’d pull a dress out of my closet and forget I needed help to zip it, engineering coat hangers to do the job for me, feeling a fleeting moment of pride before the sadness set in. Certain restaurants, songs, and authors were off-limits, but small details conspired to undo me, a constant war of attrition between me and my memory.
The Abbreviated Year of Mike Zunino
