by Jennifer Pieroni

To her, the interior of a person’s car was a reflection; it helped her imagine the home, the peculiar history, if it was ordered. She knew all of this was true and yet her own car was littered with family mittens, squeezed tissues, sand and flattened leaves beneath her feet.

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by Jennifer Pieroni

We smoked from his father’s stash in the glove box of the truck, then showered, washing each other’s hair. The master bath had this antibacterial stone tile, and we sat in the rain for a long time.

Afterwards I stayed, drying my hair, using his mother’s moisturizers. (more…)