The ancient green taxi reappeared in my peripheral vision, vanishing once again before I could be certain it had ever been there. Was the filmy web between the past and present dissolving? Would she be gone in an instant? Or would we both be suddenly transported to the streets of a New York where certain death awaited her? And possibly even me?

I picked up an Ataenius beetle from the fifth green and dropped it into his palm. He just stared at it. I explained, tiny as it was, the damage their root-feeding larvae could do. I showed him where the tips of the bentgrass had already yellowed. Soon the plants would die, leaving a bare spot, bad for play and an invitation for weeds. 

It can be assumed that you, the reader, have likely not traversed a catacomb by candlelight, but you likely are aware that catacombs tend to wind and are likely to leave you incredibly lost. This is even more true when you don’t know where you are going.

Three papasans to my left, my rival, Warren, is squirming behind an oversized picture book about dinosaurs. Warren plays on the travel soccer team and acts as if this makes him part of the Holy Family. Yesterday, he told Miss Viki she had beautiful eyes. She blushed and thanked him, but inside was probably thinking: what a nothing boy.  

First, he set the table. White porcelain plates, sterling silver flatware, fresh white cloth napkins, and a glass at each setting. One by one, he gingerly carried each family member to the oval wooden dining room table, ignoring their pungent odor, and engaging them all in light conversation.

It’s been a difficult few years since the arrival of the dishes. Her longtime boyfriend left her, followed by a smattering of men she met online who wouldn’t even stick around to help her start the soaking process. She missed out on a round of promotions at her law firm, then missed out on another round of promotions.

Nervous laughter got passed around with the Parker House rolls. Most of us at the table wouldn’t have known the movie sources, but we knew that Uncle Alfred’s patter, like his clothes and hair style, were borrowed affectations. Nothing was genuinely his. He was a pastiche, an imitation of a man being a man. 

I take my seat by the window in a two-seat row, looking, despite myself, for flashes of mustard yellow, cobalt blue, and flaming hair in the stream of boarding passengers. And then there he is, like an exotic bird, white-breasted and red-crested, cobalt jacket slung rakishly across his carryon as he approaches. I drop my gaze. Moments later a body that might be his slides into the seat beside me.

Last week, when I helped his dad at the appliance store, Guy called to say he couldn't make it. He didn't ask to talk to me; just told his dad he was meeting up with someone. He didn't even remember he was standing me up. 

I don’t say anything at this point but give him another shrug. Why does he keep calling me kiddo? Why not just say Lyssa or Missy or something? See?—I hate being called kiddo, but I’m not yet ready to tell him. I confess I like the puckering shape of his mouth with his emphasis on the letter O—kiddo, like he was about to whistle.

My heart jackhammered as I approached the security checkpoint. I froze when I saw four police officers and a technician at a desk with my laptop. My embarrassment of seeing the sticker of a pink taco Kyle slapped on my laptop earlier in the semester made me consider if I should head back to my gate.

“This isn’t the life I pictured,” Kush said. His dream had been to have a younger man live with him, a ward, someone he could adopt who would inherit his growing fortune. “Instead, I have a man who shows up when he shows up, if you know what I mean.” James knew what he meant, but it was all that he could give. 

I slip into the crowd. It’s easy to trip and catch myself on someone’s shoulder, fingers gliding in and out of pockets. I pivot and twist to get a good view. Shaved Head leans forward too close and you catch him off balance within seconds. Exhale on the punch. 

The last time I saw you, you were in bad shape. I promised to take you for a tune-up the next day, but I procrastinated. Long hours, work, the incessant Bay area traffic. The entire weekend was spent in bed, catching up on my forty winks. And then when I remembered, it was too late.

Evening falls through the trees, stretching shadows over the grass. Lora watches until the light is gone. She goes out her back door into the alley that connects everyone’s backyards, past trash bins, a laundry line, and a discarded sink. As she approaches Mrs. Delbiaggio’s back door, it occurs to her that she might find it locked.

He asked why she was crying, and she just shrugged and said, “It’s a sad song.” They didn’t speak again about it. He held her hand and she laid her head on his shoulder. He used to love the back rooms in parties – a secret party within a party, where people could speak and smoke, and it felt exclusive.  

Wayne pours soy sauce in his ramen and scrunches up his nose as he takes a sip. He dumps the bowl into the bag-lined garbage can, broth and noodles splatting against the bottom of the bin. 

“Families,” Pastor Evan once said, “are God’s greatest gift to the world. The secular world is full of unhappy people. Look at their divorce rates. It’s because women aren’t meant to work. They are meant to take care of the home. It’s not in their nature. Men were hunters, women were gatherers. It was that way for a reason.” I remember my head was throbbing and my mouth got all dried up.  

He looked past Elise, toward his creation in the fireplace. Flames climbed toward the flue and reached for air, and he grew preoccupied with the notion that he would be tossed in with the logs and reduced to ash for the good of the fire.