by Sarah Sarai i. Someone is tapping on the professional wood of Lucy’s professional workstation on the eighteenth floor of the professional law firm. She looks up to see a tall, skinny man, a legal-looking man, a lawyer, in fact. He wears a loose black suit, a suit not picked off an $80-or-less rack, yet
by Sarah Sarai “Pantyliner Notes.” It’s yours, my hands are washed for at least twenty seconds. “Girl with a Pearl Jam Earring.” “Tess of the Rosenthals.” Confidence lost in bluster is gained by belief in cohesion. Sense is altogether different and who cares not me. “Dombey and Son from Another Mother.” “A Midsummer Night’s Cream.”
by Sarah Sarai i. After my mother died from Jesus I left my hair color alone. If it’s just fucking you want, or all you can handle, a decent cut will do. ii. We laughed, me and her, when she stopped. It was the same faded blond she’d been covering. iii. Once I quit, my