These Dogs

are barking, she says, as she kicks off her scuffed dancing pumps and falls into the couch cushions. What a strange word: couch. Now, the television remote. Later, a Marie Callender’s pot pie. Turkey. In between now and later, a man pounds at the door—Beverly, he says. I know you’re there. Answer me. Thirty years ago, she would have. She would‘ve let him convince her to come back home, to try again. For the children, now grown. For him. Instead, she pours tea and peers between the blinds. She watches his breath condense, useless, and spill into the night.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.