All tagged lady lady lady
“Tell me something nobody else knows about you,” he says, sitting across from you at the romantic table. In most settings, he looks like a boy, but sometimes he looks like a man, or a cat, or a telephone pole. He looks past your left ear when he speaks, like your eyes are the production assistant’s camera, like your eyes are the burning loins red foxglove on the mantel.
I don’t remember a mouth. I remember disembodied words about: pain, impossibility, depression. I remember a box of tissues slapped across the table because it felt good to reject something. I remember the feeling of being a specimen to observe and pity, like the hard, dead frogs I was forced to rip apart and comment on in science class.
A woman broke up with her boyfriend. Then she went on a few dates using a popular website but nothing worked out. Her parents encouraged her to get out of the city, spend a weekend at the family cabin upstate even though it was out of season.
We arrived at the gilded department store, quiet on a mid-week morning. We darted around bored salesladies contouring shiny noses. Tested mists of oxygen-activated serum. Examined rose gold sunglasses stacked in rows. Smelled exotic candles in ambers jars, scents like Thistle Tundra and Whisper Noir, scents we couldn’t distinguish, sweet, spicy, hints of burnt orange, dashes of sage.
PAPER DARTS SHORT FICTION AWARD WINNER: Men used to be explorers; they used to hike a county over just for ink. Like my favorite Neanderthal with his pat of ocher. He mixed his own paint with animal fat and blew it through hollowed-out bones. He was thinking of posterity—of us—as he tossed hair out of his eyes and inked a row of horses on his wall.
We had spring rolls and greasy noodles at a Vietnamese restaurant that night with a friend of mine by the name of Tammy who was always trying to seduce my girl. Tammy had a couple of cool blonde femmes in sundresses and heels with her who spent the evening acting like her groupies. Tammy used to own a gay bar in the French Quarter. Now she owns a crummy gift shop there, close to Canal Street, where it always smells like garbage and Daiquiri vomit.
She wasn't allowed to have candy, so she kept it hidden in her top dresser drawer. Her mother made her dress in church clothes whenever company would come, and each time Connie would sneak a taste. It became her silent sacrament.
Menstruate. Watch the blood stain your sari, blooming outwards in a defiant whorl. Grab your hair by the fistfuls and scream expletives until your lungs swell urgently against your ribcage. Demand cigarillos and arrack from your husband, from your neighbors, from the anxious twist of a woman that brings you packets of milk every morning. Give in to convulsions, every three minutes or so.
Mrs. Reidenbaugh gave us our V-cards on the first day of freshman health. They looked homemade. Laminated construction paper with “This card belongs to ________________ and it is special” in 28-point Arial. Cut small enough to fit in a wallet or wristlet, snug behind your student ID and lunch money.
INTRODUCING THE PAPER DARTS MICRO FICTION AWARD WINNER — Eleanor made sure she was drunk for the moon landing. Downed three shots of whiskey alone in the kitchen. In the bathroom, she swished Listerine, spat into the sink.
The obstetrician is a lesbian too, or at least you think she is.“You’re almost forty,” she says while she examines the paperwork you filled out in the waiting room. “Have you been trying to get pregnant?” Tell her that your husband is a lady and that you’ve been trying a lot, with no luck.
Arlene was only a year older and thought everything was out of date. She cut up pillowcases and sewed them into dresses. She said, Hurry up, and I followed. Sixteen and seventeen: We knew the bartender’s favorite song on the jukebox: “World on a String.” Home was a block away from the bar. She worked at Erotic Cabaret, where pretty girls sold lingerie. We talked on curbs while taking sips of joints. We played pool wearing garters under our jeans.
Maybe God pushed Satan down the stairs. Maybe God wanted to be the only one playing with the dollhouse. Maybe Moses was a meanie, breaking rules just because he didn’t like them.
i am tired of waiting for some white boy to ask me to dance. for the other girls to leave their drama of who kissed by the campfire. i am twelve and i’ve been at sleep away camp a whole week.
You are ten years old when you buy your first training bra. They come in 5-packs at the TJ Maxx, and your mother sighs when you plop it into the red basket. The bras are pink and decorated with flowers, something that would normally satisfy you, but the pink is just not the right shade. You buy them anyway and wear one to school on Monday.
They squeezed into red and blue spandex jumpsuits, Nishka’s with a glitter-glued lightning bolt down the front and Morgan’s a star. They’d found them in Gene’s Costumes a year ago, back when they didn’t tell anyone what they were doing, back when dressing up wasn’t terrifying, months looming ahead of them.
In my other life right now I have taken up Bedazzling. It starts when I fall asleep on the couch again, TV on, remote in hand. I wake to what I think is the voice of God commanding, “Go from dull to dazzling!”
I ask Judy if she’s ever heard the phrase “cutting your heels,” like when you’re first learning something and you’re not very good at it yet, but you sort of just have to get used to it. She says the phrase I’m thinking of is “cutting your teeth.”
The woman and her husband have been thinking of adopting a goat. He’s uncertain, worries the goat will make a mess, eat things that aren’t disposable, get into things, or leave droppings that they’ll step in.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice how she wears purple and beige and black all at once. You don't know anyone who can do that and not look like a bruise