Fiction

It was all wrong, though. All wrong.

Seven digits, no area code. Local. Hello, a voice said.

Standing and staring at a familiar nothing, you’re suddenly peaceful, suspended; you don’t want to move an inch.

Beirut, she sighed. And what shall we do in Beirut?

“He’s called before—it’s all routine,” the dispatcher assured him.

Did her principles against infidelity still apply, or did death equal divorce? She thought meeting the wife might help her decide.

Almost unwittingly, Denver bent forward. But just before making contact with his pillowy cheek, it happened.

When she swallowed, you could see, if you watched closely enough, a lump moving down her gullet and into the abyss of her impossibly beautiful body, infinitely and effortlessly more beautiful than mine.

We stood there in silence for a while. Small waves of sound lapped at the stone walls and low monuments of the church: car tires, distant sirens, subway rumble.

“If you want the boy to live, pour this around the bed. Use what’s in the pouch and chant the words on the paper.”

we are always children in some way, always easily hurt by our mothers. our bodies are expanding;