Condensation Hearts

by Brittany Fonte

It was a busy Saturday morning at the local supermarket, the one on Connecticut Avenue. Anxious, coat-clad people lined the check-out stations hugging bread and milk and toilet paper to their cushioned chests for the just-spitting snow storm. These patrons huffed dramatically and rolled their eyes under frost-fogged glasses when a trainee made a mistake on a register, or the credit card machine ran out of paper. I am from Wisconsin. I enjoy snow — and cheese. I had a shopping list with thirty-three other items in my jacket pocket that day, and a handful of safety-scissored coupons on the flip-down child seat of my cart. I thought: I didn't know you had a daughter. That's what Laurel Wisenberg had said. But you know this.

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The Mattress King

by Randall Brown

My father, the Mattress King, came with offers of beds, bonds, company shares, blank checks, his Mercedes. In the ads that would soon be history, he sat on a mattress throne, wore a crown with painted gold and fake jewels. He fell asleep in mid-sentence as proof of the comfort offered by his kingship. He promised quality, craftsmanship, and the best inner springs, like an explorer sold on the promise of everlasting youth.

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