The Hot One: A Memoir of Friendship, Sex, and Murder

Picture the room you’re in right now; maybe it’s the kitchen, or maybe you’re on the train. Now picture the world outside your frame that’s just slightly out of view. Maybe it’s the next train car or the outside of your house just below the windows. Now imagine there’s a serial killer there, tracking your movements and counting down the days or hou

“If our bodies are ninety-three percent water and the earth is seventy-one percent water and the moon and the planets control the oceans, how can we claim we’re not also controlled by them?”

It would mean I was necessary.

now I am realizing that testifying would carry other significance as well:

I’m wondering if perhaps the familiarity they’re sharing now is really just a relic.

I would be the promise she didn’t get to realize.

In my more narcissistic fantasies, I wondered if perhaps her parents might look at me as a shadow daughter.

Maybe they were angry at me for being there, angry that this was happening at all and that people were allowed to come see it. This wasn’t my place. This was a family matter. And why was I here now instead of being there then?

Maybe she’d think I was a fraud. “Oh, hi there: go fuck yourself. Am I supposed to believe you’ve been crying about me all these years? Do you light a candle on my birthday? Do you speak to me at night? Whatever. Where were you when you could have done something? You think this is all exciting now, worthy of your time, but where were you when I was