The Paisley Dress
he stands there in a brown three-piece suit. it smells like dry cleaner fluid. his chin points straight down the platform. teeth too white for the light. a plastic comb sits in his top pocket. hair slicked flat with heavy pomade. cold sores are blooming, three little bastards that decided to grow overnight. red. wet.
Easter Lilies
I drop a sugar cube into the glass. watch it fizz up through the vodka and champagne. you give me that grin. we argue over some paperback. the room fills with the smell of garlic and damp masonry. the sauce is bubbling on the stove. muck spitting over the rim. it hits the iron ring
The Clocks
under the white fluorescence of the beer garden, the oak tables gleamed against the pine, their surfaces marked with faint rings where ashtrays once stood. the coasters still carried their faded pictures of maidens; the empty glasses held thin circles of dry froth along their rims. I had a pint in front of me, my