One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s been more than three years for me and my husband—at least with each other. I know this because
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Winner of the Sonora Review Issue 80 Fiction Contest, selected by Lydia Millet Holly’s pee sounded like voices. She used to think it was just the noise it made hitting the toilet,
Winner of the Sonora Review Issue 80 Nonfiction Contest, selected by Melissa Faliveno “My first reaction to most things is, ‘Fuck this, fuck you, this is bullshit,’” I said. My therapist blinked.
It arrives on my doorstep and I unbox the thing like it’s radioactive, and for all I know, it could be. The wonders of modern medicine are beyond me, and bad news
I. After six years of dating, after your fourth breakup with Tall Glass of Water, the water heater explodes and floods your things, the things you have finally moved from your coveted storage unit
Well met, well met, my ain true love/
well met, well met, cried he
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.”