by Neema Samawi
I’ve thought a lot about the way I died. Flashes of it come back to me on nights like this, when jackets pile by the door and voices mingle with the delicate taps of wine bottles placed on countertops. Harvey, the host of tonight’s housewarming, hovers in the foyer and gives tours to new arrivals. His eyes shimmer behind fishbowl glasses, darting between the entrance and the guests collected inside. He shuffles from foot to foot, glances at his phone. The doorbell rings.
Two men appear in the doorway, one in a Ralph Lauren sweater, the other with Stegosaurus spikes for hair. “Should we take off our shoes?” Sweater Guy asks, and Harvey gently requests they do. Timberlands, loafers, and about ten pairs of white sneakers line the entrance. I follow them as they follow Harvey up to his bedroom. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 