To Write A Short Story, You Have

Pleasantness Was The Machismo Of The Midwest. There Was Something Athletic About It. You Flexed Your Face Into A Smile And Let It Hover There Like The Dare Of A Cat.

They Had, Finally, The Only Thing Anyone Really Wants In Life: Someone To Hold Your Hand When You Die.

After A Childhood Of Hungering To Be An Adult, My Hunger Had Passed. Unexpected Fates Had Begun To Catch My Notice. These Middle-aged Women Seemed Very Tired To Me, As If Hope Had Been Wrung Out Of Them And Replaced With A Deathly, Walking Sort Of Sleep.

I Wondered About The Half-life Of Regret.

I Count Too Heavily On Birthdays, Though I Know I Shouldn't. Inevitably I Begin To Assess My Life By Them, Figure Out How I'm Doing By How Many People Remember; It's Like The Old Fantasy Of Attending Your Own Funeral: You Get To See Who Your Friends Are, Get To See Who Shows Up.