M.V. + R.G.
I first met M.V. at the anniversary party of a mutual friend in one of the evil suburbs of Northern Virginia seven years ago. I was taking in the slanted rays of a sunset on the patio after a conversation with a man who made his living selling the unthinkable when she stepped outside to do likewise. Our ties to the man who invited us were weak enough that it took no time at all for the one between us to supersede him in importance. In only a few minutes we discovered shared interests in the cluster of red cedars lining the backyard, the writings of David Kilcullen, and the typologies of man that walk the streets of our nation’s capital. We both knew ourselves to be wastrels beneath contempt in a way nobody else in the room could imagine.
A short story by Nathan Jefferson.