Photography by Leeta Harding
by Lana Hall
I know he’s going to be a talker before I even take off my clothes.
Ten minutes earlier, Kay, the massage parlour receptionist strode into the dressing room and made a beeline for me, flicking bills rapid-fire, as she counted out my share. “Evangeline. Room 2 for an hour.”
by Kim Horner
Joseph has been sitting here, alone under a tree by the Starbuck’s sign, surrounded by piles of plastic grocery bags, for months. He has been sitting here, night and day, while an endless stream of cars inch up to the drive-through window. He is sitting here, a Black man in his 20s, a dream deferred.
Cult of the Panda: Adventures & Old-School Fiats in Italy
by Erica Plouffe Lazure
Visiting the island of Ischia before the summer season is a bit like eating a strawberry in December—you could eat it, my Italian friends might say, but why ever would you? Italy, of course, prides itself on its seasons. Order an artichoke in August and the Roman waiter will tell you, welling with the proud, pleasant air of Roman waiters, that you must wait until September, when Italian artichokes are in season. An Italian restaurant that serves artichokes in late summer, a Roman waiter once told me, get theirs from France and, quite frankly, has no business trafficking in Italian cuisine. “We eat with the season,” he said. And he is right.
When Words Were Birds
by Alice Lowe
Zephyr (May 1)sounds like a gentle breeze—the gliding z, the gust of the ph—which is exactly what it means. The Greek Zephyrus was the god of the west wind, god of spring. His wives Chloris and Iris were, respectively, deities of greenery and rainbow, his son Karpos of fruit.