She’d swathed Vaseline on her thighs so she could walk from the lockers to the pool without them rubbing raw. But she’d forgotten to put the jelly around the edge of the bikini panties, the line where it scraped up against her inner thighs.
“Hey, asshole, you fucked up my shot!” “No, brother, I was nowhere near your arm. Look, I’m the drummer; I don’t want any trouble.”
I've had a crush on Crystal forever, and now here I am, in front of everyone, expected to stab a flower into her dress, millimeters from her—you know.
The van has left already. I tell you I'll need a moment and walk to the terrace.
I unclasped the bra hooks behind my back in a cold room with flower art and silver tools.
Before starting my morning ritual, I wipe down the counters. Greasy streaks snake across the countertops, evidence of my husband’s effort to clean up the kitchen the night before.
I can smell the acrid headiness of danger in the disinfectant-laden air. It cloys at my uvula before entering my lungs to catch on my breath.
What I’m going to miss were those silky exits from the back seat of an Uber, the air that went limp as a sigh when she decanted and entered the pulse of a neighborhood …
I am convinced I am dying in the bathroom of a coffee chain in Copenhagen.
It’s 10:50 a.m. on what otherwise would have been a usual work-dominated Monday morning, and I find myself slowly running out of patience as I wait for him at a deserted metro station.
Mumma says I must sit my straightest, let the doctor bend and stretch me even though it makes my muscles pulse. I understand that “wild” isn’t permitted here, only normal.
I ran and hid in the lush round evergreen on the corner before the moon came and the mothers called us in.
My Mum is getting shorter so I pull it down and look up “red-backed shrike” in the index. On page 42 there is a delicate watercolour of a grey-blue and brown male, sharp beak, vicious reputation.
I want to age like this river. Let the clay that surrounds me erode without judgement. Become so beautiful that no one will feel a need to ask about my origins.
I was doing what one does at a urinal in a Slamdance Film Festival party venue bathroom when a guy ran in yelling, "Everyone out! I gotta go!"
Not far from Edgcumbe Road, where pines offer their shade and scent, I meet a craggy snowbank that a homeowner failed to shovel early, when it was soft and new.
Mom and I trudge up the hill through the warm Kansas rain, lugging my possessions up two flights into my college suite. Dad sits in our van with the Colorado plates, eerily silent after a lifetime of telling me I’d be the one to make it to college.
I was alone, always alone now, and when the doorbell rang I went to answer it. I’d been expecting him but only found the emptiness of the dark night outside.
Shoes go in an evidence baggie, bright red suede shrouded in plastic.
“I sold another book.” Mom had persuaded another person to buy my novel.