-
Her Type
He wasn’t her type. Her type was classic, in every novel from the Bronte sisters to L. M. Montgomery to Sarah J. Maas. Tall, dark, and handsome to a fault. Piercing, pale eyes with frost at their centers that would melt only for her. Eyes that would cut through her soul and make her suck…
-

Saturday Morning
An ice machine hums. Cracks. The hum quiets to a lower rattle while a fan drones on. A buzz clicks on and stays on while arrhythmic thumping echoes from the room on the other side of the wall to my right. The arms of my wooden chair press into my arms and I feel my…
