Kate Ryan

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.