Fiction

Todd sits in his car, anxiously tapping his fingers on his steering wheel in a rhythmic pattern as he waits for his passenger. He looks at his lit LYFT mustache on his dashboard, humming silently. “Okay, okay,” Todd thinks to himself, “let’s not screw this up.”

I really didn’t care about winning, but seeing this lady’s cheerleader determination, made me say “I’m winning this mofo.”

Todd sits nervously in his chair, reading the Italian menu sitting in his sweaty palms. He’s berating himself internally for choosing this place, he doesn’t know how to read or speak Italian.

Todd sits in the bathroom stall at work. He frantically combs his fingers through his hair and begins to pull at it. The beads of sweat pouring down from his forehead are only offset by his eyelids that are blinking a million times a second.

It's the reason why people sit through funerals, attend weddings, wait expectantly outside delivery rooms—that unnamable presence that accompanies death and birth and the consummation of love. They're all hoping for a glimpse at the infinite. They're all looking for something profound.