The hand holding mine tugged me forward and, looking up, a spray of sympathy, she does it for sympathy, then Chanel No. 5, bright lights, and the scraping of hangers over metal rack-bones.
“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.