Despite my conversation with the doorman—“very important package”—despite my incessant refreshing of the DHL tracking page . . .
Despite my conversation with the doorman—“very important package”—despite my incessant refreshing of the DHL tracking page . . .
The waiter uncorked the Chianti at the table.
I got off work at three and walked the long way home through the cemetery.
It has been pouring for three days and it continues to rain, relentlessly and heavily.
I was watching the classic movie Chinatown with the sound turned up because of my poor hearing.
A kaleidoscope of face paint, dreadlocks, a silk scarf, a biker jacket, camouflage chock full of zippers.
Forever means continual, eternal, endless.
On a trip home to visit my aging parents, I walked past the open door to their bedroom, where my mother crawled on her hands and knees atop the mattress . . .
Gazing from my bedroom window, I spot the cat burglar sneaking next door.
Fifty-plus early birds gather outside the DMV.
The jar fought me.
The three of us sat at the dinner table, TV news a few feet away.
We drink on the tracks behind our old school, tucked under the exhale of pines.
Two months after the divorce, you attend a wedding with your ex-husband.
I wake up sweating. Click on the ceiling fan.
When I wake up for the second time my hangover has mostly abated, and there is a pigeon nesting on the roof.
My grade-two teacher Miss Dowd taped a chart to the blackboard extolling the benefits of a healthy breakfast.
Twelve years his junior, I look to my husband for landmarks and landmines when it comes to aging.
Four months after a concussion, I lay on the sofa wondering if I would be useless for the rest of my life.
The cop announces he’s going to dispatch the rattlesnake with his pistol.