“Why don’t we continue this chat in person? It’s a nice night. We could kiss a little.”
“Why don’t we continue this chat in person? It’s a nice night. We could kiss a little.”
I raised my arms high overhead, clutched the cool metal one hand over the other, stretched myself up. My legs wrapped around the pole like a pretzel.
A glass jar of sauerkraut leaps to my senses. Thoughts of pungent, vinegary goodness come to mind, and saliva collects under my tongue.
She’s late. In the too-bright room, Jim the mediator takes her coat and gently folds it on a separate chair.
We visited my father in Tennessee. He started the moment we arrived talking about the Waffle House.
The empty space left behind was a sieve. He filled it with beer, girls, burritos, blame. Mostly beer.
Skiing is inherently dangerous. Injuries happen all the time. I second-guessed this decision. What kind of mother . . .
I waited in the car while he shed his long leather coat and left it on the hood. Suddenly, a hand snatched it! An engine screeched! The coat gone!
When his novel “Catch-22” was all the rage, Joseph Heller visited my college. I was obsessed, too awed to speak up.
Thwack, he throws hard — way harder than I ever did. His fastball audibly sizzles as it comes in.
I liked being in a classroom. I felt solid in ways I did not in the hallways and beyond. Except his classroom …
I lick the knife and drift back. Guava trees flutter in the tropical breeze.
Today I am grown and driving, the road is paved. I am going to the church of my childhood to face my fears.
On a humid August night, walking down a crowded street off the boardwalk, I spot him. Dark shoulder-length hair. Scraggly beard.
We have been hiding from the virus for a year now, and winter has kept us holed up inside for months.
Feeling sluggish, like someone put two stones behind my eyelids, I slip on the white, cotton gloves my mom bought for me to wear to the shops. A friend of hers says they are the same type of gloves epidemiologists wear on the subway.
The Print button is not highlighted; only the Cancel button offers itself in bright blue. I scroll back and forth, up and down, growing dizzier by the second, but can find no other options.
I was dating through Match.com. One date was visiting my home on a Saturday afternoon when her ex-husband raced into my driveway in his Jeep.
I inch our ancient Toyota through a police checkpoint into the parking lot, open all doors and the boot, while sniffing dogs strain against their leashes.
Found myself an awkward early. No coffee shops, bars, or convenience stores nearby. I continued toward Mass Ave. Really, I paced the same blocks, searching for prints of cottontails in small brownstone yards.