fiction by Roberta Israeloff

Sunken Meadow

“So Miriam’s driving to the beach tomorrow,” my mother said to my father at supper, slapping two salmon I croquettes on each plate stacked on the washing machine which served as our sideboard—it was Monday, that’s what we always had—as if the information meant more to him than to me. A mechanic just home from work, with hands that never quite got clean no matter how hard he scrubbed, he nodded. He was eating in his sleep, in his dreams already settled in the brown easy chair stained from his hair tonic and sweaty palms, feet up.

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