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Our Honeymoon

There’s an avalanche barreling towards us. It started on the mountaintop. It’s too late now to escape. We stand at the window, hand in hand, unmoving. Words rise up in our throats and die before they pass our lips. Instead, we focus on the warmth passing between us and nothing else. Unhindered, I think of …


Mrs. Honig

I think all you wanted by then was to feel the tuft of a paintbrush along your fingers. The cold, pressed hospital sheets blotted your sweat. You seeped air from a slack upper lip. Mrs. Honig, there was nothing wrong with dusk—yawning open like Georgia’s last blossom, swallowing you with wet acrylic on your heels.