Mike Westover is dead, but his name still has power. Michelle shuts her apartment door, locks it, and takes a deep breath in the quiet of the dark kitchen. She slips out of her heels and secures them in their… Continue Reading
I never understood crimes of opportunity until I was on that bus. It curved through the cheaper part of the city, a rundown place where even the roaches quivered at the footsteps of pedestrians. We passed in and out of… Continue Reading
He stares at his nude self in the bathroom mirror. He runs his fingers from his neck down his chest and over his breasts. They’re gentle, fragile, moving across his skin as if one wrong touch and he would break.… Continue Reading
Shortly after she turned 70, Celeste discovered that she was suddenly, remarkably, no longer allergic to cats. “This happens,” her allergist said without resentment or skepticism. “We can’t explain it. Probably has some relation to a change in hormones.” Her… Continue Reading
I’m the photographer. She’s the dancer. She steps into the spotlight on the Los Angeles bar’s flimsy stage, the crowd buzzing, eyes on her glittering bra, drinks in hand. With the camera to my eye, I push the shutter button,… Continue Reading
We’re loaded down with tampons and pads, and Mom’s heading straight for the cute checker’s lane. Seriously? I’d die if I had to stand there while he rung us out. It’s obvious, right? I totally get it, she’s distracted, sad… Continue Reading