For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“Otravida, Otravez”

Junot Diaz


We fall asleep without kissing. Later I wake up and so does he. I ask him if he's going back to his place and he says no. The next time I wake up, he doesn't. In the cold and darkness of this room he could be almost anybody. I lift his meaty hand. It is heavy and has flour under each nail. Sometimes at night I kiss his knuckles, crinkled as prunes. His hands have tasted of crackers and bread the whole three years we've been together.