short stories

She had left him crying in his crib where she’d thrown him, a punishment for needing her more than she could stand.

He exhaled with a nervous smile because all he could think of was how they'd known each other like this for six months and still hadn’t fucked.

I’m surprised by the calmness in my voice. You forgot to lock the front door. You moved out and turned my life into a fucking joke.

I wanted to leave a hole as big as me. Free up the space I’d taken, more than my share. If only that surgeon had cut me down to size.

While we don’t have that much in common—mostly that I’m not a famous dictator—I suspect we could talk for days.

We had moved in together fast. I brought a silver tea service and a Persian rug, student loans and a pair of ragged cats. We settled in like it was forever.

She told me George Plimpton had once tried to pick her mother up in a bar on President’s Day. She had turned him down, of course.