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At The Diner in Heaven, they’re serving up Bubbie’s chicken soup, cigs, abandoned malls, roller skates, Tastycakes, 7-11s, exes, homemade bullets, and the feeling of constantly being angled by boys, some of them pretending to be men. Levine’s crisp, intimate prose is—much like an Edward Hopper painting—saturated with loneliness and suggestion. These stories feel like sharing fries with a friend at midnight, leaning in for the whispered secret that will change you both. ~Annie Liontas
At The Diner in Heaven, they’re serving up Bubbie’s chicken soup, cigs, abandoned malls, roller skates, Tastycakes, 7-11s, exes, homemade bullets, and the feeling of constantly being angled by boys, some of them pretending to be men. Levine’s crisp, intimate prose is—much like an Edward Hopper painting—saturated with loneliness and suggestion. These stories feel like sharing fries with a friend at midnight, leaning in for the whispered secret that will change you both. ~Annie Liontas