Her pudgy face, flour-coated and sugary and so life-nurturing in the past, had a different spark now, a searching look I’d seen as soon as she opened the door.

Follow me around a bit. Let me walk you through the rooms, structures, and clouds of my being that reveal junk drawers of "collectibles."

For the next two hours, Ed goes nonchalantly about his business, buck naked the whole time. He putters around the house, writes e mails, waters plants, vacuums the rug and sweeps the porch. I pretend to ignore his nudity

“Who says?” she purred in reply “They all do” he countered smiling , chewing on an ice cube “All of them, huh?” She leaned forward, raising a wicked left eyebrow and whispered, “And just who are they, anyway?”

She sees Connick Jr. now has a microphone. He is singing “All of Me” as if he meant her to take all of him.

“What the hell kind of name is Angel? Who were you with before, some little girl?”

The hour reflected those pleasant moments when evening hunger can be satiated by anticipation alone, before the pangs become demanding.

shortest yet

—Pretty tulips, said the woman.

Her face had that strange preserved quality Maybelle saw in many aging Boomer women — like an old toy never removed from its packaging.

You know how it is, one day a good friend sends you this long note telling you how-the-hell they are or aren't getting along in the frigging world

Elin and I had religious differences about the garage. To her the garage required regular sweeping and organization--it was an extension of our house. Elin believed dust and mold to be manifestations of inner sin. I insisted that they were agents of evolu

in which creative destruction holds the heads of entire populations beneath the surface of the water in bathtubs until the bubbles stop

After school watching American Bandstand with my two best friends, all three of us lusting after Bunny Gibson who’s all of sixteen, stacked, and very fucking hot.

sacred ground bleached with the salt of bitter tears