by Tracy Lyall Songs of 70s rock stars are fading, with old albums—vinyl records in colorful covers stacked on top of each other, thirty, forty at a time—lying dormant in a thrift-store window display. The roller rink is closed down, wooden floors scratched by skate wheels, molding and mildewing. The…
by Lynne Shaner After what seemed like ages of leisurely kissing, days lingering in the garden, and hours leafing through piles of papers on slow, sexy Sunday mornings, he left. Sure, we had argued some—sometimes loudly—but who hasn’t? I had even been wearing my hair down, mostly for him, nearly…