Kate Ryan

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.