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As Houses |
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by Carmen Maria Machado
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0:58 |
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When the sky finally opens up, we lie on the couch and listen to the atmosphere come apart. Thunder—staccato, savage—shatters the air, sound starting on one side of the room and moving through our bodies to the other. The lightning is so bright the streetlamps, sensing daylight, go out. She asks me if we are safe. “Safe as houses,” I say. There’s a comma between crashes; the wind folds a sapling. She admits, “I’ve never heard that expression before.” I touch her lips. Beneath my fingertips, they part. “I guess,” her voice is quiet but louder than the storm, “I’ve never thought of houses as safe.” I kiss her. The power goes.
Carmen Maria Machado is a short-fiction writer from Allentown, PA. She is currently getting her MFA at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. More at http://carmenmariamachado.com.
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