I’m incredibly conscious of my nakedness underneath this robe. There’s something about being in a common space in a state of undress, even one filled with similarly half-dressed humans, that feels exposing. To describe myself as modest would be incredibly silly, but I’m also not apt to parade around with my lady bits out. I… Continue reading Spa Day.
Tag: fiction
Grown-Up Friends.
We somehow find the same space in the rich earth. There are so many plots, so many squares of chocolate colored dirt, and still, our hands bump. Not even a graze, but a nearly complete overlap. As I am apt to revert to anxiety, I instantly think of the subway and my incessant need to… Continue reading Grown-Up Friends.
The Farmer and His Wife.
I’m doing that thing I do, where I ease out of my own skin and observe. I watch, seemingly from afar, but usually, exceedingly close. I’m not judging, just observing, noting. I can still see his twenty-something year old face underneath the mask of later life that he wears. All things considered, his prolonged time… Continue reading The Farmer and His Wife.
Go Eat Rocks.
The sticky air has coated every inch of skin and fabric, molding my thighs to the wooden bench below me. I rub my right foot over my left, feeling remaining grains of sand gently abrade the thin epidermis. Staring down at my book, I realize I’ve gazed at the same page for twenty minutes or… Continue reading Go Eat Rocks.
Holy Matrimonial Hell.
I can feel sweat beginning to form on satin that is jammed into my underarm. I’m pissed but this is inevitable. I’m a person who is prone to sweating and Bonnie had to pick motherfucking satin. To be fair, I’m not sure there’s a fabric that would escape my body temperature regulation, but this one… Continue reading Holy Matrimonial Hell.
Penny’s for your thoughts…
It’s so goddamn hot outside. The kind of hot where it’s hard to think straight. I knew this and tried to be thoughtful about my outfit and still, there’s little that can be managed in this kind of heat. I’ve learned that even the lightest black or white cotton will betray you, showing slivers of… Continue reading Penny’s for your thoughts…
The Shortest Long Beach.
Christine looks around, trying to remember what it was like when this space felt joyful. She felt so goddamn lucky when she got this apartment. A godsend. Inexpensive, great location. Sure, the traffic sound was a little intense at first, but that faded in time. The first time she saw the apartment, she was awestruck.… Continue reading The Shortest Long Beach.
Did you read about Kohen?
Did you read about Kohen Wiley? I ask. Who? Danny replies. Kohen Wiley, I say, more emphatically, as if that might change her answer. This is absurd, I recognize. I was in the neurologist’s office yesterday and a woman was there with her elderly mother, and she was doing exactly what I’m doing now. Her… Continue reading Did you read about Kohen?
Hot Mess Express.
My brain tracks the bead of sweat as it travels from the nape of my neck, down my spine, and finds a home in the lower region of my thin cotton tank. The dampness of my tank is almost indistinguishable from the veritable pool I’ve accumulated by the waist of my skirt. I press my… Continue reading Hot Mess Express.
A Hairy Situation.
I stare at the piece of hair. I’ve seen so many pieces of my hair detached from my head over the years. Curly, dyed strands wrapped around stubborn hair elastics and plastic nubbed brush bristles. But now, I gaze at the long, dark wet strand plastered to my tiled shower wall. It feels complete in… Continue reading A Hairy Situation.
