“Christ what a long story,” thought Mike silently as he decided never to call this pretty, dull girl again.
Ann became devout the day her husband died because the night before she had held his photo and sobbed and prayed — that God would destroy him.
She watches a hummingbird skirr from sagebrush to nectar spout, its wings a frenetic blur, like her thirties, forties, fifties.
Cars passed as he biked halfway over the train bridge. Fireworks exploded pink and green. No one saw him put the kickstand down and leap.
She squirmed. As she does most times. When she wakes, whatever she dreams, she puts it into words. So, I wait.
Amy and Jan tussle over a granola bar Amy refuses to share, reducing it to crumbs. Suddenly a different hunger takes over. They kiss.