“If that’s what his hand looks like, imagine what his….” The women gasped and crossed their legs.
who had spent too many summers selling home-made jewelry beneath an Arizona sun.
She spent her weekends photographing and searching cemeteries for tombstones of infants. He sat in the car and waited
Our old Mexican gardener. There is a glint of anger and hate in his eyes that hints at the life he may have led before he took to mowing.
He thought cottage cheese was just part of the deal as she gripped the back of his head, writhing. Who knew she had a yeast infection?
I came at her from behind while counting the roaches crawling up that bathroom wall. This wasn’t making love. This was desperation.
Dead flies on the window sill. Struggled to get outside through the glass window. Didn’t think to go backward through the blinds. They die.
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