My sister refused to dress her baby girl in anything lacy or frilly. No ruffle-butt dresses for Angie. Everything simple. Angie, though adorable in her toddler ways, was plain-looking alongside all the other little girls at holidays.

We tried. We made gifts of such dresses—there are photographs to prove it, pictures of my sister with opened boxes and a distasteful smirk on her face—but no, poor little Angie was not to wear them.

So imagine our delight when Angie started picking out her own wardrobe—quite the opposite of her mother’s tastes. Lace and layers and elaborate accessories, even hats.

“You don’t like weddings much, do you?” asked the stranger to Edie’s left.

She tapped her toes against the table leg. “I don’t mind them.”

“I’m Thom,” he said, offering his hand.

“Edie. Massage therapist. 34. Single.”

“Yeah, I thought this might be a matchmaking attempt, too. Happy couples always want to maneuver their single friends into more happy couples.”

“Odd numbers make them nervous,” Edie answered, playing with the straw and ice in her glass.

“So why the wedding ambivalence?” Thom asked.

“They’re bittersweet. Sure they’re happy now, but even if they grow old together, eventually one will leave the other behind.”

“Don,” she said softly. “Do you think it might be time to consider selling the van?”

His face tightened into a firm scowl. She didn’t bring it up for the rest of the week.

In that time, Don had time to consider what he’d put into the red ’71 Westfalia—original cabinetry and upholstery. Not much had been done to it that he hadn’t done himself—and it was in great shape. But the last time he’d repaired things in the engine compartment, he’d felt it in his back for the next month.

And they hadn’t been camping in years…

I had agreed to go back to his place only because I was pretty sure that due to his injuries, I would be able to get away should his motives prove less than honorable. He said he just wanted to go back and watch a movie at his house, because I hadn’t been there yet (this was our second date) and because he would need some more pain meds soon.

He suggested some movies we could watch as I sat on his couch and considered the centerpiece on his coffee table. Three wax pears on a long rectangular glass dish.

“Are you planning on going through that whole bottle?” the bartender asked. She’d only had one vodka cocktail, but she’d been staring at the Stoli for the last twenty minutes.

She raised her eyebrows in an ironic gesture. “Just one more, I think.”

“Long day, was it?”

“Well, aren’t you the quintessential bartender/therapist?”

“Gotta entertain myself somehow.” He slid another drink in front of her.

“Uh-huh.” She drank this one as though it were a double shot, and stood up. As she put on her jacket, she said, “Don’t tell my dad I was here, okay, Uncle Tim? He’d worry.”

“Thank you for calling Utopia Products’ Customer Care line. How can I help you?”

“I got this… thing… at my bachelorette party, and when I opened it yesterday and tried to use it, it wouldn’t work.”

“Ma’am, can you describe the product for me?”

“Please don’t ask me to do that,” she whispered.

“I can also use the product number in the bottom left corner of the back of the package, ma’am, to look it up.”

The number she gave brought up a plastic vibrator—orange—which had been our most popular vibrator. But it had been discontinued in 1994.

My sister and I loved our Barbies. One of the dresses we had was a wedding dress made by a local woman. It was a dress fit for a twentieth century Scarlett O’Hara—big skirt (no hoops), puffy sleeves off the shoulder, huge white hat.

I never wanted to wear a dress like that. I’ve sworn that I’m going to elope. I might give my parents a heads up, let them know where and when about a week in advance. But I want no part of all that planning, spending all that money… Do you know what the average wedding costs?

They’re really cute. They’re in my size. And they’re 60% off.

But I don’t need them. I can’t try them on to see how they feel and if I have to send them back, it’s going to cost me extra shipping, too…

But I might need them. Soon. They’re black; I have no open-toe black shoes, besides a pair of sandals.

But I don’t need them right now. If I should find myself needing a pair of open-toe black shoes, they’re not that hard to come by… But if I say that now…

I think I need to splurge.

Gina woke up with the irresistible urge to play golf. She hadn’t so much as played mini-golf since high school, and she’d hated the golf unit that was part of the phys ed curriculum, but today she wanted to be outside for hours, to feel the sun heating her scalp through her hair. And she wanted to know if she could play, if she had a natural talent for something that she’d never given a chance. If she showed some kind of instinctive ability, she’d love the game immediately.

Now, which of her friends could come out to play today?

Stopping only to kiss me and ruffle Karin’s hair, he makes his way to the bedroom, closing the door.

Karin colors her picture for a while, then, changing crayons, asks, “Why does Daddy always have to take a nap when he comes home? Darla’s dad and Rachel’s dad don’t ever take naps on school days.”

“Oh, honey,” I sigh, smoothing her hair. “You know how Daddy’s head got hurt a long time ago? Well, since then, he gets tired really easily.”

I look at the closed door as she resumes coloring. Curling up with my husband sounds fantastic right now.

Yeti was a sweet guy. Hairy at a very unattractive level (hence the nickname, of course), but sweet. He said the football team gave him the nickname in junior high and it stuck; he also said that it didn’t bother him at the time, which I don’t quite believe.

My ex-roommate Sheila introduced me to him as Yeti when I bumped into them on their first date. I don’t think she’d even thought to ask his real name (Jason).

He never went out with her again, but he and I became fast friends. He has a great sense of humor.

The man’s dancing, antsy. “Come on, come on,” he hisses.

“I don’t believe you. Let me see it.”

He stops moving. I put money in a bag slowly, as I repeat, “I don’t believe you. Let me see it.” I don’t need this today.

“You stupid bitch, just give me the money.” Still he whispers. Moron. He won’t even realize there’s a dye bag until he’s well away from here.

I hold up the bag, now full of money. “All you have to do is show me the gun. If you don’t have a gun, I’m not giving this up.”

Tracy agreed to a makeover only after much persuading. (Guilting, really. She was a bridesmaid, after all, and this was what the bride wanted.) The women at the cosmetic counters were always intimidating to her. She remembered she and her mother being chased halfway across the store by one of those women when she was young. It had been her mother’s favorite store, until then. Her mother had had only a partial makeover that day. The skinny, too-tan saleswoman had insisted that she had to pay for the other half to be done, though that wasn’t part of the advertisement.

The store features products of mostly local artisans: jewelry, belts, purses, furniture, scarves, glassware, paintings, pottery and totally random knickknacks. You won’t find a new coffee mug here, but you might find a brie bowl & crescent-shaped bread dish serving set. The coffee tables and shelves are more contemporary than you’re likely to find in any furniture store in the greater Toledo area. Paintings might feature anyting as varied as barns at sunset, inverted croquet games or carnival-style signs. The best part is that all of the merchandise lacks that manufacturer’s touch. This is a store to be visited often.

Rayenne inhaled sharply as she hit her breaks, white-knuckled. Not until the car in front of her had turned did she start to swear under her breath. That was the fourth time this afternoon that someone had failing to use his turn signal had resulted in her having to slam on the brakes. Earlier, she and another car had arrived at stop signs opposite each other at the same time, and they both proceeded into the intersection, but the other driver had turned left in front of her; no turn signal. The other car had just narrowly missed being crunched.

“Know who I dreamt about last night?” I asked, pouring milk on my cereal. My husband Vince was already lost in his email in the next room.

“Who?” he answered absently.

“Kevin. Isn’t that weird?” I took my orange juice and cereal in and sat down in the other chair.

Vince looked at me, clearly surprised out of his millions of messages that I’d been after him forever to delete. “I thought Kevin was dead.”

“Yeah, since fourteen years ago. Like I said, weird. We were on a date, playing games at the fall carnival.”

“Sounds like you had fun.”

Kelly was looking at her wedding invitation—elegant, with embossed edges—sitting on her maid of honor Valerie’s desk in a place of honor/importance. Valerie had been taking a phone survey when Kelly showed up, and since Kelly looked neither distressed nor excited, she’d continued with the call.

Kelly was there to iron out some party scheduling issues Valerie said she was having. Fingering the edge of her dayplanner, Kelly wondered whether she should just put a stop to all planning now, or whether she’d regret this freak-out in a month. Forever hadn’t looked this long when she’d said yes.

“I had a dream about you last night,” she said.

“Anything interesting?” He continued buttering his toast in a maddening, everyday fashion. As though her volunteering this sort of information was a daily occurrence.

So she decided not to tell him about it. She simply stood at the coffeemaker and waited for it to finish its brewing duties. Now it really was like any other morning. She wasn’t even sure why she brought it up, except that in the dream, she hadn’t been happy. But her dream-self had been happier than her waking-self had been for a very long time.

“Check this out,” Lena said; Pauline didn’t have to look to know Lena was smiling in that sappy way she did. “They’ve known each other since fourth grade. She said she always knew they’d get married.” She slapped the newspaper on the table triumphantly, as though these people’s fiftieth anniversary somehow proved her recently-shaken faith in romantic love.

Pauline instead felt sorry for… Mrs. Harry Jenkins, she read upside-down. Had Mrs. Jenkins had ever regretted not conducting a wider husband search? Had she ever been sorry?

Mrs. Harry Jenkins had not taken a brave leap; she’d made a coward’s decision.

June woke up to the smell of bread. Fresh. Floury. The wind must be coming from the south; it was the only way she ever smelled the bread from the factory. She imagined the factory workers in their paper showercaps and gloved hands, the big mixers, the assembly line of machines. Dough rising, the slicing of the loaves, the bagging.

Her route today would follow the smell of the bread factory. She’d run north till she couldn’t smell the flour in the wind anymore, then zig zag south through the blocks till she got the factory, then run home again.

Dana had moved to Georgia ten years ago for a PR job, and their mother had given up hope that she’d move home again shortly thereafter. Felicity had been jealous of her sister’s bravery at the time, would have been glad of an excuse to move away herself. But as an accounting major, she’d been able to find plenty of good work near home, where she was privy to her mother’s complaints about Dana’s desertion. Felicity had always suspected that her mother would have been more amenable to the situation had it been about a man instead of a job.

All Tina had in the way of photos on her mantle (over the fireplace she never used) were studio portraits. It was the first thing Hector noticed when she invited him over for dinner after he’d done some repair work for her. She’d paid him for it, but they both knew his asking price was nowhere near what she would have paid any professional from the yellow pages.

“See that picture of my sisters and me—with the wagon and umbrellas? My youngest sister wouldn’t stop crying. How they made it look like she was smiling is beyond us. Pre-Photoshop.”

Valerie kicked the door closed behind her. “Sam? I’m home!” She dropped her eight grocery bags on the counter, and let her purse strap fall to the crook of her elbow, then let the whole thing slip to the floor.

“Val! I was just going out to get supper—Lucia’s. You sounded like you could use that sauce tonight, and you know I’m hopeless unless it’s out of a box. I was hoping to be back with it before you got home. I set the patio table; screens are down. Kick off your shoes and have a glass of wine.”

Hale picked the restaurant for their first date; Amy had never been there, but she ordered something she’d never had before. Hale had declined to try a bite, but some people were weird about sharing meals at restaurants, so she didn’t hold it against him. At the end of the night, they’d agreed to enjoy each other’s company again the following Wednesday night. Amy picked the restaurant.

She chose a place that served all appetizers. She liked the way the menu was always changing, and how appetizers meant trying several things.

Hale wasn’t particularly pleased—and he was far from impressed.

Damon wishes Wendy would quit smoking. He thinks she should quit drinking and she swears far more than anyone would find attractive. She’s recently taken to wearing clothes that are unflattering and/or too low-cut—when will she realize that she’s not in her 20s anymore? He’s never really liked the way she leaves books open on the arm or the couch or the kitchen table so that it keeps her place but cracks the spine. He hates that she won’t go to church with him; occasionally he tries to discuss God, pretending that he’s willing to be open to her views.

Carrie dreaded going home for holidays and family events. All over her mom’s house were pictures of her four siblings and their spouses. There were two of her, conspicuous against the professional studio shots of her siblings and in-laws. The photos from their childhoods—the one of the five of them eating dripping ice cream in the back of their father’s truck the summer before he died, the candid shots of playing and helping in the kitchen or barn—had disappeared when baby Jaycee had married two year ago.

The first question (that counted as such) was inevitably about her love life.

He looked like the senator everyone hates in the X-Men movies. Same hair, same face—maybe a slightly smaller head. His headset—the band leaving about an inch of hair between it and his forehead—made him look utterly ridiculous. How can you work out in front of a huge mirror and allow yourself to look like that? Every time I turned around, he was there, rotating between five or six weight machines instead of one or two—so he was interfering with everyone else’s routine.

And to top it all off, he wasn’t wiping them down when he was done with them.

It was a Fahrenheit 451 day. She wrote it on the dry erase board on the door. No one stopped to ask her what she meant by it.

Later, on the el, she told a stranger her name was Elizabeth Bennet. He asked for her phone number, but gave her only a strange look when she asked about Pemberly.

At home, as she made mac and cheese for her four and seven year old sons, the phone rang; the caller asked for Anna. She said, “Speaking,” with a glance at the den where her husband was working at his computer.

She didn’t know what to expect when she stepped off the ferry. In fact, the ferry was actually outside her realm of the familiar, so this meeting someone she only knew from a book site on the internet was just strange. She hoped she liked him at least half as much in person as she did through their correspondence. Otherwise, she was in for a very long week. And what would happen if they didn’t like each other? Would he help her find a hotel, find her way around town anyway? He seemed like the kind of guy who would.

Nora glared at her nose’s reflection in her bathroom mirror. Which of her parents did she have to thank for these huge pores? In general, she liked her face, but her nose, a blackhead in nearly every pore, was a source of obsessive dislike. Sometimes she was confident that her foundation disguised this flaw well, but on this hot night, she was pretty sure it was just making it worse, melting into the pores and creating a kind of highlight.

She heard her date pull into her driveway and cursed. Well, maybe they were going someplace romantic—and dimly lit.

When I left grad school (having proudly completed my MA in Literature), my friends came to help me pack up my cozy little upstairs apartment with green carpeting and cute kitchen. Since I was downsizing, I gave away a great many things, including half of my Post-It collection (which still left me with a considerable number of Post-It notes and flags). And now, even though I don’t need them, I still find myself buying them, mostly because I get special offers from 3M ($3 off two packs of flags, an offer for “free” stuff for buying five Post-It products, etc.).