Nonfiction | July 24, 2018
From behind the bar, Frau Steffen looked me up and down as if appraising an animal a livestock show. She was not quite thirty, tiny and blonde, birdlike with sharp features and large blue-gray eyes. Her nails were manicured with pink polish. Her voice suggested a hint of glass breaking.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?Subscribe Today
SEE THE ISSUE
Mar 02 2021
A Series of Tubes
Although widely ridiculed for the statement, the late Alaska Senator Ted Stevens was right when he said, “The Internet is a series of tubes.” He was just off by a
Mar 01 2021
One night while counting down the till at Casa de Agave, the San Diego tequila bar I’d been working for a couple of fun but exhausting years, I received an
Dec 11 2020
Magnet Man I shift from foot to foot. Both my feet hurt. I’m packing magnets at my dad’s factory, and the rubber mats meant to cushion my joints from the