Rachel Andelman

She put the phone to his breast. It wasn't anyone they knew, though the caller claimed to be a lot of familiars. The unmet breath rattled in its cage next to his. They'd read about marriage, that this often occurred: a couple would rise out of lives like a firework, trails of sand produced in takeoff. The coal mine now their condo had her flapping against a wall. At last she picked a toy from their lot. Made of paper, it had won the Pulitzer. From the receiver curses asked to planted. He kept it pressed, let the shovels enter, break the thin layer of shirt into the cave of highest status. Across the room's acres, she was a wince and looking away's attempt. She wanted to love new -- the jacket's photo -- anything. She wouldn't watch, or help stop his Ides. They were done laughing at their definition. Their plan had always been its end.