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Not Erotica: Our Own Private Battles
I sat at the kitchen island, under the blind gaze of my grandmother. In my palm, I held the bottom of a varenyky dumpling. I put a spoonful of cherries in the middle, and then another piece of dough. “That’s too many cherries,” my grandma said, looking at me with those cloudy gray eyes.
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Maybe Not Erotica: The Problem with Nice Guys
The moaning coming from her bedroom got louder and louder. Every couple of minutes, there was the sound of a slap and she cried out. He quietly seethed on the other side of the wall they shared. It was an old house — couldn’t she have the decency keep it down?
