My blood runs cold, even though the fan is barely moving above our heads.
My blood runs cold, even though the fan is barely moving above our heads.
Two motionless hatchlings, featherless and translucent, punctuate the lawn.
It was 1989, the height of the savings and loan crisis. Olga loved her job at the bank, but still slid a resignation memo across my desk.
I sat in the Orthodox Jewish synagogue surrounded by women with head coverings, separated from my husband by a glass demi-wall.
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.