Kate Ryan

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.