Tell the Machine Goodnight

by Katie Williams

Instead of Pinot Noir, the wineries were now bottling something approximate and calling it, with a wink, El Niño Noir. Carter called it Pi-not Noir.

On the contrary, Marilee did appear to be everyone, or rather anyone, a composite of all middle-aged women, their weights averaged into a plumpness that wasn’t quite fat, their hairstyles swirled together into a dusty brown wedge cut, their khakis and cardigans compiled into these two unremarkable specimens.

Calla knew the formula for compliments given to one’s face: downgrade by one. If someone said you were great in a movie, in truth they thought you were good. If someone said you were good, they thought you were just okay.

“Tuesdays were taco night,” I say. “Taco Tuesdays?” “The alliteration makes them taste better.”