December 10, 2019 | Nonfiction
There’s no room that’s mine. This thought occurred to me plenty as a child, but it was a fact without any emotion attached. I think about it especially when I watch house hunting shows: what a wish list looks like for people who get to choose where they live on purpose.
December 6, 2019 | Poetry
Joanna C. Valente
i don't know how to manage time
the same way i manage my
away from men
December 5, 2019 | Nonfiction
I had anted up already: pics in the too-small bikini top he liked, back arched in his favorite Brazilian-cut bottoms. Did you just take these for me? he asked. By your mid-30s, romance is infinite regress. Or infinite repeat. Or just infinite, like Groundhog Day, or samsara. I don’t reuse sexts! I replied. This is romantic. We understand this is romantic. It is, in fact, romantic to take pictures just for him.
One evening when I was fifteen, back in 2009, my ballet teacher arrived at the studio wearing a shit-eating grin. Jeff loved to gossip, and he spoke with a showy Southern twang that made the juice of every secret dribble down our fingers.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to suffer. I love her. I love her very much.
The last time I saw George, we were hanging out at the brewery where he worked as bar manager. He and I were perched on stools, like old times, sipping suds and watching the Orlando Magic battle our interstate rivals, the Miami Heat. The stale stench of hops and malts cut in from the beer vats in the back while I told him about Boston: the New England beer scene, the fervent sports fans, the colleges where I taught writing. He shared that things had been going well for him, considering.
Something bad happened. I sat on the bed. Tammy was under the bed but I didn’t know that. And the mattress is held up by wooden slats but the slats weren’t cut long enough, so they barely hold up the mattress and if you shift your position on the bed, there is a good chance that the slats will move out of place in the frame and the mattress will fall through the frame. And that’s what happened. The bad thing.
When she died, she just wasn’t there. I had to ask about her. She wasn’t in the usual place.
I think they mean they just don't like a woman going around going "cunt cunt cunt."