
The All Too Common Cold
My weekend trip to San Francisco was lovely.
Eve Peyser's thoughts on the mundane and amazing parts of the future, which is now.
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Read 10 days ago and current, but nothing has been published for 5 years.

My weekend trip to San Francisco was lovely.

I was born in 1993, five days before Michael Jordan announced that he was retiring from the Chicago Bulls in order to pursue baseball.

It was an almost 90-degree Friday night in Las Vegas, and despite the oppressive air, there were so many people out on the Strip that I could barely take a step forward.

Last week, I was walking from Times Square to my mom’s place in the East Village.

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I had been on I-80 for 20 minutes or so when I found the perfect truck to follow.

It was late February when the ants began to die all around me.

I don’t often feel excited about checking the mail.

A few months into the pandemic, when it became clear that things wouldn’t be normal for a very long time, I started to miss strangers.

My father used to drag my sister and I out to Huntington, Long Island to visit his father (“gramps”) and his brother (“Uncle Al”) a handful of weekends every year. I struggle to remember a single interaction with gramps—it never seemed like he had any fondness for children and he died when I was 13—but I have warm enough memories of Uncle Al. He lived in a house that felt impossibly big; not only…