a story by Kirsten Clodfelter

The Slow Unraveling of Sadie Clark

Dalton’s leaving looks like this: It is a Tuesday night in winter. There has been an argument about his inability to load the dishwasher. Sadie, unprepared. Sadie, unable to stand still. She paces the small kitchen and flings her skinny arms. She is dramatic, prone to hyperbole, sometimes short fused. But no one can say Dalton didn’t know this. Irrelevant. Please, he’d say to his friends. That body. God Damn. Sadie yells loudly enough that people in other apartments can hear. “You can’t take care of anything. You never. Take Care. Of Anything.”


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