Our apartment feels like a museum, not for lack of life lived –as marks on the wall from shoes tossed off after nights out where we carry each other would indicate– but because it has been curated in her image.
The camera light blinks red every couple of seconds as a warning that I am not alone—yet my boss does not know that the eyes in the freezers and fridges behind me can see past industrial steel.
Had he not run out of sugar, Abraham wouldn’t have left his house at all. It’s the sixteenth of the month, and a storm stirs in the air of his small Southern town.
Esther chewed on the inside of her cheek. She sat in the reception room of Gibbons & Hamilton, LLP waiting for the receptionist to call her for an interview.