Short Stories 

In the evenings, women bathed in egg whites. With their salmonella coated skin, they kissed their husbands good night. They made sure to sleep on their backs, you know, to prevent face wrinkles and keep the tangles from invading their blown-out hair. With smiles plastered on their faces, they drifted into their beauty sleep, magazines earmarked on their nightstands.

  • A Letter To Audrey

    I would bet anything that my hands could wrap around his neck with more roped care than hers could ever knot with unintelligent longing. Her hands are probably bigger than mine, bony and cold, and her body more awkward as their limbs beat like off-rhythm drums, intertwined beneath the bed sheets I washed this morning.