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    <title>SparkBang</title>
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    <description>SparkBang — an adults-only publication of sensual literary short fiction. One short piece every night, a growing catalog. Suggestive, not graphic. 21+.</description>
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      <title>Two Blocks</title>
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      <description>She knew what he meant and what he didn&apos;t mean, and she got in the car.</description>
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      <title>Already Awake</title>
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      <description>She knew he was awake—had known it for over an hour—and neither of them had said a word, which was its own kind of conversation.</description>
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      <title>The Drawer</title>
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      <description>She reached for the zipper herself, and he said there was coffee, and neither of them meant what they said.</description>
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      <title>The Overhang</title>
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      <description>He didn&apos;t see her until he was already beside her, and by then it was too late for either of them to pretend.</description>
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      <title>Area Code</title>
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      <description>She hadn&apos;t deleted his number — just renamed it, as if the phone wouldn&apos;t know.</description>
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      <title>North Light</title>
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      <description>He had not been allowed to see the painting until now, and she understood, brush still in hand, that she had been waiting for exactly this.</description>
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      <title>Three Blocks</title>
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      <description>She had chosen the table nearest the window for the view, not for company.</description>
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      <title>Muscle Memory</title>
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      <description>His whole body was a familiar territory she&apos;d lost the right to cross.</description>
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      <title>Morrison</title>
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      <description>Eight years, and he still looked up before she reached him — some peripheral awareness of her that had outlasted everything else.</description>
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      <title>What the Light Does</title>
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      <description>Her shoes were in her hand before she remembered she didn&apos;t want to go.</description>
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      <title>The Interval</title>
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      <description>They had agreed on dinner, nothing more — and both of them knew exactly what that meant.</description>
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      <title>Still Life</title>
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      <description>He walked in at ten past nine, and she discovered she had been waiting.</description>
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      <title>The Wedding</title>
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      <description>They’d sat us at the same table. Someone, somewhere, had thought that was kind.</description>
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      <title>Twelve Years</title>
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      <description>Twelve years in, he still asked. That was the thing about him — he still asked.</description>
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      <title>The Last Box</title>
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      <description>There was one box left, and they both knew it was never really about the box.</description>
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      <title>Don’t Tell Me</title>
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      <description>She had her hand on his chest. Two fingers. The lightest pressure possible.</description>
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      <title>Atlanta</title>
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      <description>The train had been delayed an hour by the time she sat down across from him.</description>
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      <title>Morning</title>
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      <description>She made coffee in his kitchen like she lived there. Maybe she did. Maybe she always had.</description>
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      <title>Three Buttons</title>
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      <description>The whole dinner could have been a fire and we wouldn’t have moved.</description>
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      <title>Reunion</title>
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      <description>He recognized her shoulders before her face — the way the air around her had been carved out specifically.</description>
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      <title>The Wait</title>
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      <description>She told him to wait. Just wait. The kitchen island was cold against her palms.</description>
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