Amy is hovering over me while I flip through the photos on my iPhone, passing tiny cubes of Brooklyn sunsets, Internet screengrabs, and a rather embarrassing number of what I would like to call “meaningful selfies.”
“Whoops, ugh, sorry. That’s totally annoying,” I say, quickly scrolling past the images I took that morning, camera held high above my bed in an attempt to document the groggy aftermath of a pretty big night out — hand wrapped around face, bare leg draped over the bed, blurry and out of focus. You know, uh, art? Because Amy is a good friend she says something to the tune of, “No, I love it! It’s great!” forfeiting an opportunity for game judgment and eyeball rolling.