From "Sunday in the Garden"

A snake in a forest. A broken yellow line running through a frost heave. The irremovable gold sticker from Oprah’s Book Club. The possession of a secret was an anchor in the noise. She looked out at the garden. She went to him, there.

The Car From "Notes on Mexico"

The art critic, who criticizes everything. The man who built a little house on an island so that no one could reach him. Who thinks that the size of Michelle Obama’s hips are indecent. Who takes coconut ice cream for desert instead of chocolate flan. He pulls me into a discourse about Mexican fiscal policy that I neither understand nor care about. Over a final glass of sparkling water, he explains how he recently ordered a car in much the same way one would order a pizza. He called up the company, gave them the model and his credit card number, and finally, his address. And they drove it out to him.

On the way out to my car, I see his. It is a raised white truck with painted flames along each side. This is not the car he had ordered like a pizza. He explains that it is his vehicule d’enti-enlevement. The car he drives around in so that he won’t be kidnapped.

From "Notes from Mexico"

On the way back from the restaurant, he says- he’s almost singing, really- how I hate the Parisians. Les Parisians, comment je peux les haiir. He has an incredible voice. He is purring. He says it is the same every time he arrives in Charles de Gaulle. Last time, he asked a man when he could expect his suitcase. As if I have time for such things! The man exclaimed. The Parisians. How I hate them. How I hate them sometimes.

From "Metronome"

For Jin, it didn’t hit him the way it did some boys. He’d always appreciated the intricate nature of a woman’s beauty, the delicate exactitude of a gesture, the way a woman could store entire sentences in her head only to pick them apart later, carefully, carefully, like so many petals.
It was an instinct, the attraction, sharp and all consuming, the smell of a man. The taste of his sweat and the nubby grit that held on to the ridges near an ankle. It was about the delicious loss of control that came from being opened.
Though he didn’t have a type, it was important that he could depend on the other person’s body. He didn’t like the feel of small or fragile things. The delicacy of sinews and pert bones repulsed him- he hated his own elbows, for example. There was a little knob that stuck out, the subcutaneous olecranon bursa. Bulbous and insistent, like a bottle cap poking out from underneath his skin.

From "The Sunset"

Despite the fact that the contractors had taken their time (and certain liberties with the budget), the new French doors they’d installed were a breathtaking addition to their already spacious bedroom. And beyond those doors, the balcony. Snug, centered, like the forepeak on a ship, perched protectively above the seascape of trees and plains and bushes, the balcony stood out as the apex of their achievements as a couple. Thirty-five years married, and this is what they’d decided to build to remind themselves of it. A magnificent, albeit costly, pat on the back.

From "Sun Tunnel"

There was fury and rage and metallic tension in the air and the brush was scintillating with molten ornaments of need.

I work in the Arts & Crafts Section and I can’t remember the name of my first dog. I.e, Is my life a failure?

Why do people take the spot next to the window on the bus when they only have two stops? Since when has it become commonplace to careen about a shop with a hot beverage in the vicinity of printed matter? Would I be different if I drank coffee instead of tea? What happened to the jewelry box I hand painted for my mother when I was in summer camp? How often do they vacuum this carpet? How long could I go without food before I felt sick? Isn’t it amazing that only a painted yellow line keeps strangers from hurtling into one another with their cars? How many people has my sister had sex with? How could the postmaster have allowed 100 ducklings to die in a box before they could be delivered- wasn’t there some indication that they were ever so much more than fragile? Will I ever like to exercise? The question was never, why did my mother do it, but rather, why did she wait so long?
What is the appeal of monogrammed tote bags? Shouldn’t people declare sand in their sneakers on a custom form? How did my father make it through the day on just one half of a grapefruit?
If books cost less, would more people get published? If I wrote a book, would I be considered ungracious if I left out a thank-you section? Why do so many American women have highlights? How did the lobster feel when my mother placed him on the floor of our black and white kitchen in order to scare, or to impress us? Will I have this job for the rest of my life, or will I die beforehand?
Why do the ridges of my socks stay imprinted on my skin so much longer than other people’s? Why in the world would I ever want to order a blueberry latté? What happened to my childhood furniture after my father moved in with the woman in the leggings? How come there are never any people of color in the Fiction section of this bookshop, is it because I live in Connecticut? Why does adding an additional ‘p’ and ‘e’ to the end of “shop” automatically cause one to associate the venue with Christmas? Does anyone know the difference between a sheriff and a cop?
Do people actually forget that they have half a sandwich in the staff refrigerator, or do they intend, one day, to suddenly remember –hooray!- I have half a sandwich in the staff refrigerator?
Am I too old to wear a bib? Is it human to not allow us to sit down? How many people out there actually create things with pipe cleaners any more and where in the world would you buy some if you wanted to?
Do only men build model trains? Why do guests never use the guest soap you leave on the top of the carefully folded towels on their bed?
Why can’t I remember the name of my first dog?
Isn’t there another location for a nametag than on top of my left breast?