Katherine’s Coffeehouse

Spectacle

This is how I remember you, white apron speckled with red sauce, spectacles on the end of your nose, eyes rolling heavenward while you stifled a mutter, “Sweet baby Jesus, will you ever stop?” That I didn’t showed us both something: I was not to be trusted. Not with dirty pots I’d stuck to the

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Tick

I look down, and it’s on my thigh, just sitting there, sucking the last bit of self from me, and I wonder, for a second, how it lives, all those antidepressants in my blood, all those germs on public toilets. What a time to get a tick, I think, for these bumps to arise, pushing

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