We clutch hymnals, whisper hearsay, stretch clenched muscles, remember her in the recital, her yellow feathers fluttering as she shuffled in line with our daughters . . .
I approach the entrance of Steinway & Sons, hesitating before entering for the first time.
Standing at my office door Monday morning, sipping my first cup of coffee, I greet Mary, direct marketing director for Harvard Business School Press.
The side door opens with a rush of cold air. The dog, not party to previous conversations about college break, traffic, or logistics, leaps up.
On our bus trip back to Canada from Aunt Rose’s in Herkimer, New York, border agents asked us about any undeclared purchases.
8 p.m. I entered the circular fitness hall and found myself alone. Surprisingly deserted.
Scanned. X-rayed. Biopsied. Contemplated putting on my bra. Instead, picked up a leaflet.
He reaches across my face to accept a drink. His muscular, hairless arm is dangerously close to my lips.
My breasts pulsate and my nipples tingle. I’ve not eaten for days yet my waistband punishes me.
Heather returned my yearbook with an expression I can't recall. A friendly smile? A smirk?
Although in my eighties, I still consider myself one of the last of the cool dudes.
Late at night a car speeds down the freeway in Los Angeles, weaves across lanes, overcorrects and slams into the cement abutment beneath a freeway overpass.
The hairdresser asked me to remove my glasses before she began cutting my hair; my mom put them in her purse.
I walked in, set down my box of belongings, and entered the kitchen. Reached towards the fridge door and pulled back with flourish.
Squeezed into tight jeans, we left the sliding-glass door ajar to avoid triggering the alarm and slipped through the backyard gate.
He told me to drive into the garage to a designated spot. I did, and got out.
Five months into our living together, my lover held me on his lap and murmured in my ear, “Will you ever leave me?”
I set my laptop next to me on the couch and go to my brother, immobile in his fully automated wheelchair.
I feed them in tandem. Wood ear mushroom for my three-year-old. A pincer-ful of macerated dumpling skin for the baby.
A woman beside me on a plane, maybe mid-sixties, watches Reels on her phone. I scroll through my own feed.