I’m on my way to my first threesome. I’m taking the Q to Midtown because there’s a bar on 52nd Street that this couple likes.
It was weird having to dress for both the female and male gaze. My belt is a little black string tied in a coquettish bow, but my hair is pigtailed because, in my twosome-only experience thus far, guys like handlebars. My lips are red but my perfume is Daisy by Marc Jacobs. My purse is cute black pleather, but my shoes are Converse. I have AirPods in and an aloof far-off gaze to match, but I’m reading a book too. It may or may not be Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.
I don’t want to attribute any further reasoning as to why I’m doing this other than that I’m bisexual and each of them thinks I’m different denominations of attractive (the guy thinks I’m cute and the girl thinks I’m pretty, but neither of them have said I’m hot yet).…
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“…only the names of places had dignity.”
– Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
No farms recede from Ives Dairy Road,
Just row after row of June Cleaver homes—
No apples blossom on Orchard Lane—
Acres of trees? Not one remains.
No trout swim near River Street,
Just pavement pounded by weary feet—
Moo-moo-moving are herds of cars,
Gassing their way down boulevards—
Our supermarket is Evergreen Park
Where traffic lights dispel the dark—
We call our shopping mall The Open Field—
Not even the names of places are real…
– Robert Piazza…
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“Your beard is telling me you care about the planet,” the blonde with the clipboard said.
Sylvester just kept walking, and he tried not to sneer.
He did love the Earth, but not in the trivial way she did. He loved it all, loved it down to the nickel-iron core; wondered, at night, if the center really was a high-pressure crystal, perhaps a gigantic diamond.
Her love, or concern, he expected, was only for the skin of the planet, the puddles that were the seas, and the froth of atmosphere above; and perhaps the cuter quadrupeds.
People, he thought, are so shallow.
The crowds at the corner, waiting for the pedestrian scramble, had him asking himself if you could divide people by class and politics simply by observing their coffee cups cross-referenced with their shoes.…
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Aaron Christianson sat absent-mindedly rubbing the cast on his right arm as Mr. Grimes, the Middle School principal, finished up his devotional to begin the second semester.
“Boys, it’s so wonderful to have y’all back with us. I like holidays as much as anyone, but I also miss you young men when we aren’t in session. For you 8th graders, this is your last semester of Middle School. Make the most of it. I want to finish today with a ‘Christmas Miracle.’ I’ve gotten Andrew Smitherman’s permission to tell it.
“Some of you will remember that Andrew lost his backpack right before exams. Well, two members of the Ames maintenance staff found the backpack during their big cleanup over the holidays. I don’t know where they found it, but they turned it in to Lost and Found. …
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The scent of leather, shoe wax
and the cobbler’s aftershave,
pears, broken
crates of ricotta cheese, rinds of parmesan stacked
haphazard on barrels of yellow beans,
fagioli, hard as beads,
crushed beet
leaves, broccoli florets, snap
peas. The scent of basil stops
at the back of the storage room, where grandfather
sits, propped up in suspenders and shirtsleeves, head
tipped forward, shoulders hunched, his work
consumed by their broadness. A ray of light
slices the top of his head, green apple in one still hand,
coring knife in the other, the peel
falling into the milk crate. By his blackened shoe
a grey mouse rubs its furry back
into the stitches, nibbles a hunk of cheese.
– Paula Brancato
Note: “Her Grandfather” is a revised version of a poem originally published by Mudfish in 2008.…
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“Seeking a responsible housemate to join a quiet and loving couple with cats.” The advert stated that drugs and overnight guests were not allowed. I scrutinized the photo: an untouched, unfiltered picture of a middle-aged husband and wife, each cradling a calico cat. The amateur, out-of-focus shot of a nerdy cat couple set off red flags. Additionally, having an allergy to cats, I moved to delete the post. My finger hovered over the trash can icon, but my mind rushed in with rebuttals: The rent is so reasonable! It’s close to your office! It’s great to live with nerds because they aren’t drama queens! It was the last rebuttal that closed the deal. One week later I signed the lease.
The wife—Deborah—had given birth by the time I moved in.…
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Clyde was cleaning out the closet. There was always too much stuff, and he knew he shouldn’t keep it. There were old papers, and only God knew what they were or how long they had been there. Then there was the camping gear. He used to like to camp. He went out several times a year. But that was before he had met Daisy, before he fucked her, before he asked her to move in.
“Will you open the other window?” Daisy called from the living room. “It’s hot.”
She was pouting. He could hear it in her voice. She was pretty even when she pouted. That window, the one that stuck, it upset her beyond reason, the fact she couldn’t open it, that she couldn’t have her way. …
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