Fiction

When she pulls out her keys under a cantaloupe-slice moon, I drop unnoticed onto a strip of yellow weeds by the curb.

The day my neighbor ran over his wife with a lawnmower, I decided to acknowledge the mold spreading itself over the cheese.

I picture kneading Rayan’s mound, needing the seed back into the earth, pushing and pulling until it spreads up through her body, reclaimed as ours.

I glanced at your screen, the warm bright center of possibility, and plucked the third idea from the top. A digital detox.

When we speak, the light pours from our mouths and blinds us.

At first, I didn’t know how to tell him about the tests. After knocking back half a glass, I thought: this was no time to be polite.

I was all marked up in his fingerprints, the berry hues blooming against the summer bronze of my skin. My lips had been painted with the same care and attention.

You’re okay, the plant told her, its voice comforting as a warm bath. Its gray-green flesh glowed in the light of her room. You’re safe here.