Modern Love
By David Waters

I lock the door, hike up my dress, roll down my pantyhose, and perch on the toilet in the bathroom of Ed Dwyer’s Victorian townhouse. I look around. The only bright colors emanate from the Mondrian design on the shower curtain. It has mold along the bottom edge and two of the shower hooks are off the rail. An orangish stain hangs from the lower corner of the window casement, like the hanging tail of an animal who got caught there long ago and perished. I inhale to convince myself that I can’t smell it beneath the lilac air spray. I look for toenail clippings on the floor, but instead see a thin line of ants making the undulating trek from under the bathtub, across the tile floor, and out through the crack under the door. Everyone in San Francisco has ants when it rains. From the street the muffler of a lowrider grumbles, clears its throat, and the wall in front of me trembles in sympathy. The song I hate most, One Less Bitch, by N.W.A., pops into my mind.

Melting Icicles
By Cath Barton

I don’t remember the first kiss. I do remember the walk back through the woods, the feeling of his arm round my shoulder, the excited fizz of that. At a certain point we stopped and he kissed me. But I don’t remember what that felt like. There’s a lot I don’t remember. But I remember the cold of that winter. The biting cold. And the icicles that hung from the high gutters of the houses in the street where I lived in a student flat. They grew downwards, like stalactites. He said they could be stalagmites. I knew they couldn’t, knew that the way to remember which was which was by thinking of the French words—‘tomber’ to fall and ‘monter’ to rise up. I knew I was right; I was the one studying French, not him. But I didn’t argue, because I wanted him to like me. I remember that. With a sinking feeling. And a sadness for my young self.