You arrive a bit late, trying to be polite, giving Margaret extra time to prepare, but you are last and your carefully selected bottle of cabernet franc will not be enjoyed. Twin bottles of Bogle chardonnay and merlot are already open on the buffet, and mellow Margaret greets your entrance with enthusiasm.
Read MoreDuring our brief time together, Brandon made one accurate statement. Almost everything that came out his mouth-his political conspiracy theories, soliloquies of the ego, the tales about fistfights and shady dealings he thought I’d find sexy as hell-was bullshit.
Read MoreIt was an accident. An accident? It was the steady ground suddenly tilting into the steep sides of a gorge, and the shitty path and its shitty cracks turned into crumbling rock giving way under shittier shoes, the ones that were going to be thrown out and replaced with the new season because these had paid their dues and there was supposed to be just enough traction for a few more weeks of Weather, before Weather gave way to Heat.
Read MoreThere’s a girl on the softball team in love with her bat. You see them together, in the storage room. You hear her whispers, hear her sighs. She says you can’t tell anyone. Says she’ll break your fingers if you do.
Read MoreShe woke up thinking carpet. It had fallen out of fashion, she knew. Everyone wanted hardwood floors these days. But now carpet seemed like the right idea, the cure, the fix, so obvious that it was embarrassing.
Read MoreThe honeymoon year was a home-cooking adventure, joyful domesticity inside Storybook cottage. They cooked love notes for each other in the form of casseroles. The couple lost The Magic quickly though.
Read MoreIn the morning we split up the MDMA we stole from Todd’s older brother between the four of us. We thought it was MDMA. It looked a lot like the picture we saw on Erowid so we figured we’d be okay but sure enough we were all staring at the mounds of white powder in front of us, unsure how to consume it, when Todd said we were going to be late for our last day of high school.
Read MoreMy son comes for a rare visit on his horse — contemplate the gall of it. He ties off to my mailbox. Destrier stamps marigolds; it looks like the End Times have started in my yard. “Come in, son,” I say, and pat his back with a halfhug. He pushes a paper bag into my hands.
Read MoreShe makes a game out of hiding the bottles in the woods. Her father goes to work building whatever building needs building that week, sometimes driving as far out as Sullivan County down old M12. L puts down her book—her father likes to see her reading, let him know he's done this one thing right—and tiptoes into the kitchen. She doesn't need to be quiet but that's part of what makes it like a game.
Read MoreA boy in my high school showered three times a day. He wore sunglasses inside and had sex with my best friend. Their families vacationed in Florida at the same time.
Read MoreThe year after their baby died, they sold their furniture, her skis, his table saw. Then they donated most of their clothes. They asked to see tiny houses, no larger than 500 square feet. “Bill and I are buying a house on wheels,” Amanda told their families. “We’re going to travel like gypsies.”
Read MoreI received your letter two months after marrying Mike. The letter was printed in blue Courier font and the graphics were abysmal.
Read MoreMaybe he shouldn’t call her that. Too girly. A diminutive pet name focusing on what she looks like. Too old fashioned, he worries, something not for girls anymore these days, something his parents’ or grandparents’ generation would have said alongside white picket fences and a green, well-manicured lawn, the station wagon in the driveway, its cargo top filled with the colors of summer escapes. She’s more than that.
Read MoreAfter supper, we took the kids down to the road next to Bryson's Pond to see the body. Picture ran in yesterday's paper of the accident. The kind of thing that makes news in our small town: smashed up car with the hood rammed through the interior and door sheared off, its body leaning against the telephone pole like a drunk too afraid to take another step.
Read MoreA cop car pulled up next to me as I stood at the crosswalk of the empty intersection, on an empty summer night. I heard the static of dispatch through the car’s open window.
Read MoreIn bleached out archival footage that never really existed, I learn about Amelia Earhart. I see her tear-scrunched face held together in a blindfold on some island that happened to catch her little propeller plane that couldn’t quite. For whatever reason, it just couldn’t quite.
Read MoreSamantha and I are both “the babies” when we play house. Samantha has better dolls, so we stage our house in her bedroom. Her closet doors are mirrored, and so when we play house, it’s like there are four of us—Samantha, Samantha’s twin, me, my twin—and when we skip and dance and laugh, we multiply even more.
Read MoreMom loved that eagle cam so bad. She watched it like she watched NASCAR and Seinfeld in the 90s. Two feet from the screen and both hands in a bag of Martins. All day she stayed glued.
Read MoreGreat. Now you’re crying in the middle of giving a blowjob. Luckily, Steve the engineer isn’t paying attention to your face. With a mouthful of his cock, and one of your hands pumping double time, he better be completely transported.
Read More