Fiction

There’s something painful about being here in San Francisco. I can’t say what. I’m always losing my words.

You make stuff up all the time. You excel in subjects that require making stuff up, like English composition and moral science.

It was like holding a lighter above a pool of gas. Something was on the verge of rupture.

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.