“Holding Pattern” by Marjorie Tesser

No. I thought you quit. My husband is curled over something held low in his lap.

Just one time, I say. Just a little bit . . .

“Clubbing” by Jennifer Schaefer

It took the bulky female bouncer all of five seconds to find the stash in Sallie’s bra: “Now, what’s this, love? Next time keep it in your knickers.”

Damn it—now she’d have to try to score inside . . .

“We Are Not Saints” by Lauren Eyler

This is axiomatic. This is easy. The hard part comes when you have to say, hello I am an. My name is and I am an. I am alcohol. I am an alcohol named and I am an. Well, we are not Saints . . .

“First Time, Last Time” by Robert M. Detman

Harry glances around the room, the trim freshly painted. Someone with money owns the place. Maybe Christiane’s family.

“Does anyone live here?” Harry asks.

Gem sneers at this pretense of familiarity.

“You ask too many questions, man . . .”

“Friend” by Nancy Nau Sullivan

Tater. His real name was Willam Francis McKinny III, but he got the name Tater because he was about as useless as a potato on legs when he drank. His best friend Nick Plakowitz named him that soon after the two of them started stealing Jim Beam from Nick’s dad’s liquor locker in the basement that was set up like a pool hall. Nick poured water in the square booze bottle so his dad wouldn’t know.

Tater said, “He’s gonna know.”

“Nah, he don’t want to deal with it. He too busy with that paint business of his.”

Tater shrugged. Nick’s dad never said a word . . .

“Living the Dream” by Sarah M. Chen

The wind won’t stop banging the bougainvillea against our fence, and the tap tap tap is beating into my skull. My eyes dart around the bedroom, but all I see are hulking shapes. I know they’re our dresser and bookshelf, but at night they look meaningless.

“Choice” by Narween Otto

“No one else ever needs to know about this . . .”

“The stain will stay.” by Bobbi Lurie

I spill coffee on the bed. The white quilt is stained.

How can I fix this? I tiptoe up the stairs to their kitchen, soak a wad of paper towels in the sink. I go back down the stairs, rub the paper towels into the stain. I scrub and scrub. The sun is rising; the stain is not. I lay back down on the bed. Hopelessness . . .