Near the bridge, one leaves Jack’s Java.
Three blocks down, on the opposite side of Main, another exits Alma Books.
The two approach each other under a patchy sky, where blue tears whole swaths of winter from March. They notice: black hair wind-raised in a question mark, sunlight winking off a silver buckle, brown blazer, turned gaze, one’s loose gait, another’s briskness.
Passing cars interrupt the observations. Storefront windows darkly double them.
They appreciate. They dwell. There is much to like.
This could be fate.
One wants to stage an encounter, pretend a sudden street crossing is part of the afternoon’s agenda. But then what? How to bring about more than a nod, hello, and backward glance?
The other wonders the same, rapidly weighs which possession (phone, book, gloves) can suffer a timely plunge to the sidewalk and warrant a halt, exchange, closer inspection.…
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He did not want to see her and comforted himself with the thought that she did not want to see him either. It was too much!
It.
He did not want to think about that, so he thought about the summer of seventy-four or seventy-five instead, when they had both read The Great Gatsby and all summer long imagined themselves very bohemian, very 1920s avant-garde,people of affairs, perhaps, or at least people not shocked by affairs.
Yet for the Halloween party that year they did not dress as Jay and Daisy, or even Scott and Zelda, but chose Bonnie and Clyde because she had been seduced by Theodora Van Runkle’s costumes on Faye Dunaway’s flawless frame.
In particular, the beret.
He had gone along because he dug Warren Beatty. …
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My mind imagines, bleeds
ink for almost-profit in shades
of depravity most could not even begin
to conceive. I sleep
with scissors beneath my pillow
for sanity, sit with my back against walls,
always keep doors in view. I walk
my dogs, carry a Maglite
that has not worked in years
as a weapon, ready to strike at shadows.
I am a product of my own darkness.
The boogiemen whispering from closets
and corners wear nametags I gave them,
wait for dialogues I have yet to write.
– A.J. Huffman…
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It was a bitter cold December evening, and Officer Pierce wished he was home with his family. It was the holiday season, after all.
Soon he arrived at the scene, which had an ominously festive appearance. Blue and red lights flickered, reflected in the glass shards that covered the ground like a light dusting of snow. The crunch of his boots on the glass sounded like a stroll through a winter wonderland. But there was death here.
It was a dangerous corner, a turn that coincided with an intersection established long ago, when drivers heard hoof beats or the jingle of horse-drawn buggies, and paused, tipping hats and bidding good evening to neighbors they knew, not only by name or appearance, but by voice and words and deeds.…
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Jane was visiting her therapist for what she thought would be the last time. Her health insurance provider had determined that Dr. Goodbody was “out of plan,” and Jane’s visits would not be covered.
Jane settled down on Dr. Goodbody’s sofa and talked for a while, explaining her circumstances; then she invited him out for dinner.
“Jane,” Dr. Goodbody said, “we cannot conduct a therapy session in a restaurant. It’s unprofessional. It’s….it’s….”
“…It’s Thai,” Jane said. “It’s the new Thai restaurant on the corner. We could have Pad Thai. We could have Kanh Ko Mu if they’ll go easy on the garlic. You may be out of plan, but we could still have champagne to celebrate.”
“Celebrate? I may be out of plan,” the Doctor said, glaring at her across his desk, “but perhaps we should discuss the possibility that you are the one who’s out of plan. …
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Maybe I should feel guilty. I don’t. She really did have it coming. But you know that.
Try the shrimp. That’s a wasabi crust; the dipping sauce is orange-ginger.
Where to begin? You know, things used to be really good between us. Effie and I were together six years. And up until the last couple months, everything seemed great. Sure, we had our ups and downs, like everybody, but we always worked them out. Until he came along.
You okay with me not using his name? Yeah, I figured you would be. It’s childish, I know, but I can’t bring myself to say it. It grates on me that much.
Anyway, Effie comes home one day and announces that her boss is dead and gone. Terrible thing.…
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Two dark-haired students wearing Brazilian-flag tee shirts undressed Jessica with their eyes. She tossed her red hair and turned her back on them. She’d arrived in Belgium from the States on Saturday, and this was her first day of a summer semester studying at Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. The orientation for new and reentering students had ended, and she weaved through French and Flemish conversations. She was in the square outside the arched portico of the Tower Library, a Gothic, gild-relief building. The sky was gray-smeared clouds.
A sandy-haired student wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a pink tie spoke in German-accented English to a fellow with a three-day beard and flowing blond hair under a black ski cap.
The German said, “Read Kafka. The meaning of life is that it ends.…
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