Thomas J. Misruaca

I want to gaze longingly into his eyes…

His eyes are a murky brown, not green like he wrote in his dating profile. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot. Is he stoned?

Danielle Connolly-Graham

I’m making risotto. Lashings of butter and garlic  sauteed. De-glazing the Carnaroli with a French white, he tells me, is made by a couple who are too young to make wine. It tastes like dry cider… aged, almondy like sherry. 

June O'Sullivan

They had lost it. The spark, butterflies in the stomach, ghost fingers down the spine. They tried to coax it back with marriage counselling, sexy outfits, weekends away. Friends and family swooped in to babysit, trying to cement over the cracks. In expensive dining-rooms they sat, itching to pick up the phones they had promised to sideline, yearning to scroll themselves away from here.