At the coffee break, I try to catch his attention. I preen. I
strut. I keep myself on display, letting the top button of my
shirt fall open, a subtle showing off that the other men are
oblivious to. 

Tashkent

The cow lows in the field behind my house as the sun sets, purple and orange and pink against the wheat fields on the street that’s still called Lenin. When the night sky goes from blue to black and the stars shine above me...

On the Street That's Still Called Lenin

He spent his first night back tossing and turning on his too-stiff, still-creased sheets, the new mattress squeaking beneath him. Egg-yolk yellow light from the street below filtered through the lace curtains...

A Warm Encounter

He heard a sharp intake of breath as he drew closer to the priest and took his own, drinking in the heady, intoxicating smell of the incense clinging to the consecrated damask in front of him.

Elizabeth Olguin

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