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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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
2022 Four days after my wedding, my mother posts on a popular question-answer forum asking strangers to help her kill herself in our garage. Nathan and I are in Palm Springs, trying
Like a waiter reciting how the evening specials are prepared, a man in uniform announces, so that the eight of us can hear, that you are probably a man in your fifties,
Shock On Friday before Halloween weekend I was, at long last, pregnant. I’d taken the day off to prepare for my favorite holiday and to go to my first ultrasound appointment as
Apple peels curling pinkly on the kitchen table, their white meat tart and cold when I bit into their crescent shapes. Because I was five or six or seven even, I didn’t find
“It’s not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out the window.” —Wallace Stevens, Letters (1966) * * * “Where do you want the window?” Everett asks, standing on the unframed
Ryan and I had decided we were too old to be parents. We’d just met too late in life for this to happen, and the fiscal reality that we were teachers meant
this essay was first published in THE DEAD ARE GODS (Melville House, 2023) I am not really a believer. I suppose the best way to describe myself would be atheist, but then
Voronezh, Russia, 26 December 2018 When I got off the bus, my grandmother was there at the bus stop in her brown fur hat and long mink coat. She had owned them
I sit on the rough cement steps of a country convenience store, keeping an eye on Mom. She’s been on the phone for at least an hour. She has a pile of