There’s an our kind and a their kind.
I was Indiana Jones, hanging from a rope above a pit of snakes, my moves skilled and sure. My recorder was below, begging to be rescued like whatever unrealistic female heroine Jones would fall in love with and then totally forget about by the sequel.
She took in another breath, reminding herself of the hours she would have to spend today making forced smiles to cover her nerves, laughing anxiously to prevent herself from saying something she didn’t mean, and breathing in and out to steady her heartbeat.
Did he think about telling me that summer, when there was nothing but us and the truck and the highway for miles? Maybe not, didn't want to ruin it all.
You keep the bones. I learned this as a girl, cleaning after a chicken dinner.
I was just taking some time off, I told myself. From college. But more and more it felt like from life.
The little bird’s so still, just looking up at me with those robin eyes, just staring like it sees what’s deep inside me, like it’s stunned by the horror of it. I think that’s when I begin to understand: sin’s damn personal.
The baby is so small, lying there on the changing table. If she fell she would surely break, maybe die. The woman repeats this: I cannot let you die, baby. I cannot let you die.