Tag: Patricia Q Bidar

When my father left us to live with my fifth-grade teacher over in Navy Housing, my mother’s hands changed. They’d always been rough and dry, bare nails cut straight square. Now that she’d begun working, she visited a salon every two weeks. A pink bottle of Rose Milk lotion stayed on her bedside table. She…

Fiction by Patricia Q. Bidar There’s a beach. Mexico. A young couple in a convertible, winding up a coast. A couple so attractive their grim mouths add to their allure. The man’s crucifix flashes in the sun. Introduce the players — not too many — in media res. There is me, in Philadelphia. At this…