For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“Sunday: A Song Cycle”

Kate Petersen


There is an age when you believe that seeing something is the same as being shown what you can have.

Days divided by restaurant shifts, anchored by the routines of their home. Yard work in the afternoons; bills. Showers and baths came before the evening news. From my guest room, I could hear them calling to each other between the floors; whether there was more butter in the cellar, whether to put the rice water on yet, to drain the bath or leave it. A faucet squealed; a pan rang and damped itself on the stove. Then the quiet interval when they changed places, feet on the stairs–the rest of love, which I could only guess at.

We read it in Crazyhorse, No. 83.