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Women hold gloved hands over your face, protect you from what really happens in the world, then laugh at your awkwardness.
By Deborah ShouseAugust 1990Carol had on a pink blouse. Her bra straps made these small ridges in the cloth. Every time she bent to reach for another glass, a small crescent of purple poked from beneath the pink. It looked like the edge of a real whopper.
By Terry L. TomaAugust 1990In fourth grade, after the bra-and-girdle notebook affair, we all fell in love with Julia Harris. By “we” I mean the foreign boys in Madame Bouvet’s class, and also Pascal Fourtané, the only French boy we foreigners hung out with.
By Robin GreenMay 1990I met Gary Blake at the meditation hall. It was a place of silence, but Gary Blake was not a silent man.
By Natalie GoldbergApril 1990What magnificent creatures they are, these friends who populate the complex ecology of the life I share with Julia. Refreshed by their presence, confirmed by their affection, we rejoice in the sight and the sound of them.
By Robert EbischJanuary 1990“I’m going to do you to death,” he said. “How about that. Not because you’re pretty, either, because you’re not, but because you can’t stop me. How about that.”
By Linda DanielsJanuary 1990Rose wore a hat with a feather, and gloves. Oh, she looked smart. Esther was proud to be with her. Rose said she’d called for a taxi, and they were to go downstairs to wait. Out they marched.
By Myra EppingJanuary 1990Peter sprawls across the floor of my living room, which is also my kitchen and dining room, and talks to me about my life. He smells like alcohol swallowed too fast. The cat is under the coffee table, eyeing him with distaste.
By A. Manette AnsayDecember 1989Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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