by Lori Thatcher

I’ve stopped wearing a bra around the house since visitors have been scant with the new-normal isolation. The malfunctioning AC lets heat etch thin red lines of chafing under my boobs between showers. Too late to reconsider much. We used to make love in the sticky heat, laughing when our bodies glued together, welcoming weather as steamy as we were, but not now. Soon, the soaring swallow-tailed kites I watch ascend until out of eyesight will leave, headed for South America. Too late to reconsider much.


Lori Thatcher - when not writing, or conjuring up problems for imaginary people - packs to move back and forth from Maine to Florida with her husband of fifty years. Two of her short stories have been published in collections and she has a book of chained flash fiction in the works.