A red shirt for solidarity, a slogan for the fight; these things she wore with pride. She stood on the front line and was the first to fall.
He gazed at his wife’s face, at the gentle curve of her body under the sheets. His silent tear fell on her as she lay in another man’s bed.
Just then, I realized my pet peeve about women — they don’t tell me beforehand that their husbands are coming home soon.
Shrill aunts doting, impersonal gifts, competitive quilts, insincere delight, ridiculous games, stale cake, punch: everything I can’t have.
Turned out the drunk who hollered “$20 to blow this” was referring to his dashboard breathalyzer. Didn’t immediately lower my mace, though.
Tearful, she huddled on the center stair. Half-way up? Half-way down? For the first time, it was her choice alone which way to go.