Kate Ryan

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.