I want to be as gothic as the ocean that backdrops rows of fancy stores where
women sell half-imagined lives.

No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I want to be as gothic as the ocean that backdrops rows of fancy stores where
women sell half-imagined lives.
“I guess,” Caitlin said, giving me a funny look. “They also have celebrity home tours, and you get to see where the Kardashians live and stuff.”
“Oh God, I hate–” I started to say, then realized that she had meant it genuinely. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” I asked instead, hoping that the change in venue would help make up for our lack of shared interests.
How do you say no to seventy thousand for a five-minute video?
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“May I help you?” Nora asked, opening the door slightly. His eyes were deep blue with dark bags underneath, as if filled with viscous liquid.
“Who are you? Did Oliver sell this place already?”
He said “bastard” under his breath. She turned on her Manhattan edge.
“Excuse me. Who are you?”
The accident took place on I-84 near where the entrance to the Taconic snakes around the perimeter of a rolling cattle farm. Though I didn’t see it happen, the back door of the tipped-over trailer must have flung open upon impact. I arrived just as the goats, startled but unharmed, righted themselves and walked through it.