Our first date is at an Italian restaurant in the Upper East Side with fake brick walls. The waiter sits us down and says, “Welcome to the old country.” The fake walls are peeling away from their glue. They’re warping. They’re old. During dinner, my date
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All things considered, it is a comedy about fruit. People travel from miles around to buy produce from the stand on the side of the highway. They get out
When we came out of our apartment the humidity punched us in
At Sunday lunch, Jim’s dad almost chokes on a mouthful of mashed
On the beach just by the power plant, Brett told us about the Prick Garden: “There’s a rabbi,” he said, “just back in the woods. He buries foreskins in his yard. Bris.”
Winner of the Sonora Review Issue 77 Fiction Contest, selected by Rebecca Makkai
According to Jan Krufka of Hard Facts Magazine, my studio apartment was a musty, dank lair. He told his readers about the tissues I had tucked into the crevices of my corduroy
This get-together is entirely brunette and liquid and will pass right through us like bright lights or cheap liquor.
When I think of what I want your name to be, I think of the undoing of a corset, and I want it to resemble laughter.
And there they went storming up the beaches, afalling from the windows, twisting by the pools, thinking up something cruel, (like) carrying water in slotted spoons...
She extended one arm towards me, then another. I allowed her ten limbs to encircle me, snake around my ribs, under my arms, between my clothed thighs. I got one glimpse of
She bites and chews and gnaws. She is so focused on the tiny words in her textbook. Then she clamps down on the pen cap so hard that it snaps in half.
You imagine grabbing his hands and free-falling with him, his heart beating in synch with yours as you plummet. You imagine being together, and being helpless.
When I was little, my grandma once frightened me when I knocked on the bathroom door and she responded, “Just a minute, I’m putting on my face.”