“To The Men I’ve Missed”
by Katy Goforth
A long weekend was creeping closer for most people, but Ruth Booth felt like she was in the front car of a roller coaster as that same long weekend waited at the bottom, ready to slam on the brakes and jerk her around. Unlike most at the mill, she hated the weekends. The weekends were filled with activities that tasted like baby pink cotton candy. Pretty and sweet, but when you touched it with the tip of your tongue, it disappeared.
Ruth enjoyed the ritual of the work week. The alarm clock didn’t blare in her house. The sunshine peeped through the sheers as it broke through the pine trees standing like tall, thin soldiers in the backyard. Those pine trees reminded her she once had her own tall, thin soldier. Wib Miller had been gone for two months and four days according to the calendar that hung above the phone. Each morning, she would pencil in a check to mark another day without Wib. No ink. No sentimental red heart. She wanted the option to erase the past.
With her bed made complete with knife sharp corners, Ruth would don her clear shower cap to freshen up before work. Just a light run under the water since her thorough cleaning would be in the evening so as not to take the workday to bed with her. Next would come practical cotton underpants and a bullet bra. She didn’t like the look of the bullet bra or what it attracted, but she knew she couldn’t control the chaos outside of her own walls. So, Ruth would slip on her bullet bra and prepare to battle.
Zipped into a black sheath with stockings peeking out from just below the knee down, Ruth navigated the city sidewalk from her house to the Haynes Hosiery mill where she worked on the line. Just because her job involved manual labor did not mean she couldn’t present well. Ruth began the dance of weaving in and out of the crowd and ignoring the searing stares burning into her chest.
If those oglers only knew what the woman in the bullet bra had done, they might have shifted that gaze elsewhere. Ruth often wondered if they could sense it on her. After Wib stopped showing up at Wednesday night and Sunday morning church service with her, she expected hard questions. They assumed Wib had moved on to a greener pasture. Perhaps a more filled out bullet bra. One like June Whitaker’s.
Ruth made her way into the locker room to change. Everything had to come off. She methodically pulled on her work uniform, making sure she followed the same order of steps as the day before and the day before that and the day before that. Order is what kept attention off of her. She slipped her hairnet over her raven chignon and punched in.
“Should just run away like Junie did, huh?”
Ruth stiffened her spine against June’s name. The words hung in the air between her and her co-worker, Imogene.
“Oh, God. I wasn’t even thinking, Ruth. I’m such a clod.”
Imogene punched in and scuttled through the swinging doors, leaving Ruth in a cacophony of sadness mixed with anger. Everyone assumed Wib and June ran away together even though Wib was technically hers. And she refused to call June by her cute nickname. Sounded like she was still in saddle shoes and pigtails. Ruth breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, smoothing the wrinkles out of her uniform and readying herself for the stares once those swinging doors pushed open.
Lunch time found Ruth quicker than she wanted. The work was meditation to her. Doing the same thing over and over and over again. It was soothing. Once her feet settled in from the pins and needles, she got her rhythm. The measly thirty minutes interrupted that rhythm and forced social niceties with her mouth full of food to boot. Breathing in all that air from talking was not good for digestion. Ruth tried her best to be a loner, but there was always some soul that thought she needed companionship.
Muffled sounds of low chatter and intermittent laughter pushed through the crack in the lunchroom door and attacked Ruth’s insides. They started to twist and turn. Then the cramping would come next, along with the urge to bolt for the restroom. At least she would be alone there.
She pushed open the door, and the sounds created a steel wall from ceiling to floor between Ruth and the others. Even in her aproned uniform she could feel the stares settling on her bosom. Both men and women penetrated her chest with their judgment. She found an empty table against the wall. Only room for two. Thank goodness for small favors.
Ruth began the ritual of unpacking her lunch. She took each item out of the paper lunch sack, reused, of course, and she arranged the items as if on a lunch tray from school. Peanut butter and jelly with no crusts in the center. The crusts were thrown in a bowl on the counter and disposed of each Sunday before church. Ruth would scatter them in the same spot on the lawn to feed the birds. No waste needed.
She continued the charade of placing her lunch in the appropriate spot on the table. Apple in the lower right corner and a sliver of a brownie tucked in above it. In the upper left corner sat one of Ruth’s few treats. A Blenheim ginger ale wrapped tightly in aluminum foil just leaving the bottle cap peeking out of the top. She carefully unwrapped the foil and folded it like a bath towel. That foil could be used again for tomorrow’s treat.
As she popped the cap off using Wib’s P-38, the bubbles and the spice escaped, tickling her nose. She kept his GI can opener on a ball-chain necklace tucked into her clothes. She tucked it back in, and the corners of her mouth turned up. She took a swig. The bubbles burned and chased each other to the pit of her stomach where there was an explosion. Ruth sometimes thought about this feeling in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. After trying to count backwards from one hundred, she would finally give in and go to the kitchen.
The light above the stove lit a dim path for her to make it to the freshly polished Kelvinator proudly taking up most of the space in the kitchen. From there, she would treat herself to a Blenheim’s and two small juice glasses. Tucking the glass bottle between her arm and breast, she would unlock the basement door. The scent of tobacco and struck matches made her nose hairs ticklish.
“Ruthie, I’m gone take this seat here. I’m sorry. I know you like to eat alone. Nowhere else today.”
Ruth snapped back to the lunchroom and looked up to see Imogene plop a paper bag with stains on it down on her table. Why people had to add those cutesy extra letters to all of the women’s names was beyond her. Her name was Ruth. It wasn’t that hard. Her stomach started to cramp at the thought of Imogene unwrapping her egg salad sandwich that smelled like flatulence and mustard. Ruth straightened her spine and waited for Imogene to yell across the lunchroom at the other ladies with her mouth hanging open as the egg salad fought to stay out of her gullet. She excused herself.
It was Wednesday, which meant Ruth had no time to waste. She still had to pop her green bean casserole, fresh beans only, into the oven before freshening herself up for the Wednesday night service. Church service was a place where she relaxed. No anxious feelings upon arrival. No cramps while eating dinner with the rest of the congregation. Each Wednesday was the same, and Ruth could count on the agenda each week.
She almost allowed herself to grab her clothes and scurry out to the street like a cockroach berobed in her factory apron. She inhaled for three counts and out for three, and she slowed her movements as she changed out of her uniform and into her sheath. The chattering and banging of lockers around her had faded to the background.
As the mudroom door swung open into her kitchen, Ruth took three strides to the sink to wash the world off of her hands. Next steps would be changing out of her sheath, placing it back on its hanger, and snapping up the front of her baby blue housecoat until it was time for service. She went through the motions, shuffled the green bean casserole from her beloved Kelvinator to the oven, and finally rested her gaze on the doorknob to the basement. Her other little slice of indulgence was behind that door and down the steps.
Ruth shook the thought out of her head so hard that her chignon came loose. Not to worry, though, because she still had 20 minutes to freshen up before getting to the church.
As she maneuvered her Chevrolet into a front row space, Ruth spotted Buck James, the head deacon, at the door. His impure thoughts seared through her backside as she bent to get the dish from the floorboard, careful not to spill and get anything on her white kid leather gloves. She smiled tightly and concentrated on not tripping and dousing him with green bean casserole. As she entered the fellowship hall, she spotted Alice James, Buck’s wife. It was hard to miss her. Alice towered over the fellowship hall at almost six feet with heels.
“Ruth, you look so lovely this evening. Fresh green beans?”
Ruth greeted Alice with a tight smile and a nod. The woman couldn’t fool Ruth. Alice’s demons rippled under her skin like a baby ready to be born. Ruth could smell their stench mix with Alice’s Chanel number 5. The woman knew her husband ogled every woman under 35 that passed the church’s threshold. And Ruth knew one of his secrets. Buck was a predator and yet Alice chose to release her demons on the women. Ruth didn’t understand.
“No word from Wib, hmm?”
Alice asked this question as if she could somehow read Ruth’s thoughts. As if she already knew the answer to the question. Ruth nodded no and started across the room with the casserole dish. Alice’s red lacquered talons reached out and gripped her arm, stopping her from escaping.
“Remember, dear. Just because you wasted opportunity doesn’t mean you can go sniffing for more at another’s door.”
Alice released her nails from Ruth’s arm. The nerve of her thinking Ruth would want to roll around in the sheets with Buck James, much less make cleaning up all of his messes her vocation. At least she was able to clock in and out at the mill and had a check for her work at the end of a week. As she made her way across the room, she heard Alice say, “When was the last time you saw June Whitaker, dear? About the last time you saw Wib?”
They all assumed Wib had left her for June Whitaker. She supposed it was the easiest and most salacious thought to have. What Alice and the others didn’t know was that June Whitaker had gone down to Charlotte to have Buck James’s baby.
When the rumors started about Wib and June, Ruth confronted him. He, of course, laughed off her accusations, and she, of course, didn’t believe him. So, she went to June. She told June about the rumor mill churning. June broke down and confided in Ruth about Buck James. She also sent Ruth on the correct path to who was running around with Wib. Like a bloodhound on the hunt, Ruth’s trail stopped and alerted at Alice James’s feet.
The woman was the devil herself at the helm of the church social circle. And Alice didn’t believe in shoving you out of the circle. She enjoyed putting her prey right in the center for everyone to watch while she played. Ruth certainly didn’t like the idea of Wib’s eyes being so easily swayed, especially toward a woman her senior. And yet what she actually hated about Alice was her cruelty. This would not do.
The evening service had been built around the tenth Commandment in Exodus 20:17. Coveting thy neighbor’s home, husband, wife. You name it. Ruth tried to make her eyes shoot flames through the back of Alice’s head. She sat in the pew so smug wrapped in her cashmere cardigan so casually thrown over her shoulders. It was then she decided that God did have a plan for her, and it involved Alice. This made her anxious to get home and solidify the plan.
As Ruth pushed the mudroom door open, she stayed true to her ritual. Three strides to the kitchen sink to wash off the evening. The supper and church service had wiped her out. It was evenings like this when she missed Wib the most. Even though he only half listened to her, it helped to talk through things out loud. As if when the words were spoken into the air, they stopped taking up valuable space in her head.
She thrived most with rituals. It was why the Kelvinator was always stocked with Blenheim’s. She and Wib would split one during the evening exchanges. Two small juice glasses with giant oranges on them and one spicy, bubbly drink. Ruth patted her hands dry on a dishtowel and reached for the juice glasses. Grabbing the Blenheim’s and bumping the fridge door with her hip, she headed to the basement door and navigated the steps down. A rush of heat mixed with burning wood hit her face. The old coal stove heated the house. Only now she fed it wood. Didn’t mean the old coal room was out of service.
Ruth made her way down the basement steps careful not to drop any of the glass. She placed the juice glasses on a serving tray she kept on a chair by the old coal room. Pausing, she tried to decide on whether or not to treat Wib to the pomp and circumstance of opening the bottle of Blenheim’s and hearing the snap and bubbles. Why not? Everyone deserves a little treat.
She used both hands to pull the door open. No more stench rolling out of the door like a putrid fog. That was good. Wib was just where she had left him, although he had dried some and slumped to the right. No matter. These small details could be fixed. Ruth carefully placed a towel down on the coal room floor so she wouldn’t track lord knows what through the house upstairs. She used a gentle hand to right Wib’s upper torso and head, careful not to let his neck snap.
She stepped back out of the door to observe her work. Perfect. As she lifted the serving tray, Wib’s head slumped to the right again. These things happened. She carefully placed the tray with its treats on the towel and poured two small glasses of the bubbly treat. Stepping back out, she seated herself in the chair and lifted the glass to her nose, letting the bubbles tickle her.
“You look awfully lonely tonight, Wib.”
Ruth swirled her drink as if it contained an expensive nip. She closed her eyes and imagined the basement as a grand ballroom full of live music and peals of laughter floating above the heads of beautiful people. She was one of those beautiful people.
“I’ve been thinking it might not be fair to leave you here alone all day while I work. Would you like some companionship?”
She opened her eyes and was back in her dark basement looking at Wib Miller half-mummified in her old coal cellar. Tiny juice glass of Blenheim’s sitting between his legs.
“I’m thinking that mean old hag Alice James will join you sooner than later. You wanted her so badly and all. Why should you do without?”
As Ruth raised her juice glass in Wib’s direction, she pushed her chest out and treated him to a brilliant smile while exclaiming, “To the men I’ve loved. To the men I’ve kissed. My heartfelt apologies. To the men I’ve missed.”
Katy Goforth is the author of Anchored (Belle Point Press) and Traveling Alone (Cowboy Jamboree Press, October 2025). Her writing has appeared in Brevity, Reckon Review, Cowboy Jamboree, Salvation South, and other journals. She is Pushcart, Best American Short Stories, and Best Small Fictions nominated. She was born and raised in South Carolina and lives with her spouse and two pups, Finn and Betty Anne. Learn more at katygoforth.com and follow her @katygoforthwrites.
by Katy Goforth
A long weekend was creeping closer for most people, but Ruth Booth felt like she was in the front car of a roller coaster as that same long weekend waited at the bottom, ready to slam on the brakes and jerk her around. Unlike most at the mill, she hated the weekends. The weekends were filled with activities that tasted like baby pink cotton candy. Pretty and sweet, but when you touched it with the tip of your tongue, it disappeared.
Ruth enjoyed the ritual of the work week. The alarm clock didn’t blare in her house. The sunshine peeped through the sheers as it broke through the pine trees standing like tall, thin soldiers in the backyard. Those pine trees reminded her she once had her own tall, thin soldier. Wib Miller had been gone for two months and four days according to the calendar that hung above the phone. Each morning, she would pencil in a check to mark another day without Wib. No ink. No sentimental red heart. She wanted the option to erase the past.
With her bed made complete with knife sharp corners, Ruth would don her clear shower cap to freshen up before work. Just a light run under the water since her thorough cleaning would be in the evening so as not to take the workday to bed with her. Next would come practical cotton underpants and a bullet bra. She didn’t like the look of the bullet bra or what it attracted, but she knew she couldn’t control the chaos outside of her own walls. So, Ruth would slip on her bullet bra and prepare to battle.
Zipped into a black sheath with stockings peeking out from just below the knee down, Ruth navigated the city sidewalk from her house to the Haynes Hosiery mill where she worked on the line. Just because her job involved manual labor did not mean she couldn’t present well. Ruth began the dance of weaving in and out of the crowd and ignoring the searing stares burning into her chest.
If those oglers only knew what the woman in the bullet bra had done, they might have shifted that gaze elsewhere. Ruth often wondered if they could sense it on her. After Wib stopped showing up at Wednesday night and Sunday morning church service with her, she expected hard questions. They assumed Wib had moved on to a greener pasture. Perhaps a more filled out bullet bra. One like June Whitaker’s.
Ruth made her way into the locker room to change. Everything had to come off. She methodically pulled on her work uniform, making sure she followed the same order of steps as the day before and the day before that and the day before that. Order is what kept attention off of her. She slipped her hairnet over her raven chignon and punched in.
“Should just run away like Junie did, huh?”
Ruth stiffened her spine against June’s name. The words hung in the air between her and her co-worker, Imogene.
“Oh, God. I wasn’t even thinking, Ruth. I’m such a clod.”
Imogene punched in and scuttled through the swinging doors, leaving Ruth in a cacophony of sadness mixed with anger. Everyone assumed Wib and June ran away together even though Wib was technically hers. And she refused to call June by her cute nickname. Sounded like she was still in saddle shoes and pigtails. Ruth breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, smoothing the wrinkles out of her uniform and readying herself for the stares once those swinging doors pushed open.
Lunch time found Ruth quicker than she wanted. The work was meditation to her. Doing the same thing over and over and over again. It was soothing. Once her feet settled in from the pins and needles, she got her rhythm. The measly thirty minutes interrupted that rhythm and forced social niceties with her mouth full of food to boot. Breathing in all that air from talking was not good for digestion. Ruth tried her best to be a loner, but there was always some soul that thought she needed companionship.
Muffled sounds of low chatter and intermittent laughter pushed through the crack in the lunchroom door and attacked Ruth’s insides. They started to twist and turn. Then the cramping would come next, along with the urge to bolt for the restroom. At least she would be alone there.
She pushed open the door, and the sounds created a steel wall from ceiling to floor between Ruth and the others. Even in her aproned uniform she could feel the stares settling on her bosom. Both men and women penetrated her chest with their judgment. She found an empty table against the wall. Only room for two. Thank goodness for small favors.
Ruth began the ritual of unpacking her lunch. She took each item out of the paper lunch sack, reused, of course, and she arranged the items as if on a lunch tray from school. Peanut butter and jelly with no crusts in the center. The crusts were thrown in a bowl on the counter and disposed of each Sunday before church. Ruth would scatter them in the same spot on the lawn to feed the birds. No waste needed.
She continued the charade of placing her lunch in the appropriate spot on the table. Apple in the lower right corner and a sliver of a brownie tucked in above it. In the upper left corner sat one of Ruth’s few treats. A Blenheim ginger ale wrapped tightly in aluminum foil just leaving the bottle cap peeking out of the top. She carefully unwrapped the foil and folded it like a bath towel. That foil could be used again for tomorrow’s treat.
As she popped the cap off using Wib’s P-38, the bubbles and the spice escaped, tickling her nose. She kept his GI can opener on a ball-chain necklace tucked into her clothes. She tucked it back in, and the corners of her mouth turned up. She took a swig. The bubbles burned and chased each other to the pit of her stomach where there was an explosion. Ruth sometimes thought about this feeling in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. After trying to count backwards from one hundred, she would finally give in and go to the kitchen.
The light above the stove lit a dim path for her to make it to the freshly polished Kelvinator proudly taking up most of the space in the kitchen. From there, she would treat herself to a Blenheim’s and two small juice glasses. Tucking the glass bottle between her arm and breast, she would unlock the basement door. The scent of tobacco and struck matches made her nose hairs ticklish.
“Ruthie, I’m gone take this seat here. I’m sorry. I know you like to eat alone. Nowhere else today.”
Ruth snapped back to the lunchroom and looked up to see Imogene plop a paper bag with stains on it down on her table. Why people had to add those cutesy extra letters to all of the women’s names was beyond her. Her name was Ruth. It wasn’t that hard. Her stomach started to cramp at the thought of Imogene unwrapping her egg salad sandwich that smelled like flatulence and mustard. Ruth straightened her spine and waited for Imogene to yell across the lunchroom at the other ladies with her mouth hanging open as the egg salad fought to stay out of her gullet. She excused herself.
It was Wednesday, which meant Ruth had no time to waste. She still had to pop her green bean casserole, fresh beans only, into the oven before freshening herself up for the Wednesday night service. Church service was a place where she relaxed. No anxious feelings upon arrival. No cramps while eating dinner with the rest of the congregation. Each Wednesday was the same, and Ruth could count on the agenda each week.
She almost allowed herself to grab her clothes and scurry out to the street like a cockroach berobed in her factory apron. She inhaled for three counts and out for three, and she slowed her movements as she changed out of her uniform and into her sheath. The chattering and banging of lockers around her had faded to the background.
As the mudroom door swung open into her kitchen, Ruth took three strides to the sink to wash the world off of her hands. Next steps would be changing out of her sheath, placing it back on its hanger, and snapping up the front of her baby blue housecoat until it was time for service. She went through the motions, shuffled the green bean casserole from her beloved Kelvinator to the oven, and finally rested her gaze on the doorknob to the basement. Her other little slice of indulgence was behind that door and down the steps.
Ruth shook the thought out of her head so hard that her chignon came loose. Not to worry, though, because she still had 20 minutes to freshen up before getting to the church.
As she maneuvered her Chevrolet into a front row space, Ruth spotted Buck James, the head deacon, at the door. His impure thoughts seared through her backside as she bent to get the dish from the floorboard, careful not to spill and get anything on her white kid leather gloves. She smiled tightly and concentrated on not tripping and dousing him with green bean casserole. As she entered the fellowship hall, she spotted Alice James, Buck’s wife. It was hard to miss her. Alice towered over the fellowship hall at almost six feet with heels.
“Ruth, you look so lovely this evening. Fresh green beans?”
Ruth greeted Alice with a tight smile and a nod. The woman couldn’t fool Ruth. Alice’s demons rippled under her skin like a baby ready to be born. Ruth could smell their stench mix with Alice’s Chanel number 5. The woman knew her husband ogled every woman under 35 that passed the church’s threshold. And Ruth knew one of his secrets. Buck was a predator and yet Alice chose to release her demons on the women. Ruth didn’t understand.
“No word from Wib, hmm?”
Alice asked this question as if she could somehow read Ruth’s thoughts. As if she already knew the answer to the question. Ruth nodded no and started across the room with the casserole dish. Alice’s red lacquered talons reached out and gripped her arm, stopping her from escaping.
“Remember, dear. Just because you wasted opportunity doesn’t mean you can go sniffing for more at another’s door.”
Alice released her nails from Ruth’s arm. The nerve of her thinking Ruth would want to roll around in the sheets with Buck James, much less make cleaning up all of his messes her vocation. At least she was able to clock in and out at the mill and had a check for her work at the end of a week. As she made her way across the room, she heard Alice say, “When was the last time you saw June Whitaker, dear? About the last time you saw Wib?”
They all assumed Wib had left her for June Whitaker. She supposed it was the easiest and most salacious thought to have. What Alice and the others didn’t know was that June Whitaker had gone down to Charlotte to have Buck James’s baby.
When the rumors started about Wib and June, Ruth confronted him. He, of course, laughed off her accusations, and she, of course, didn’t believe him. So, she went to June. She told June about the rumor mill churning. June broke down and confided in Ruth about Buck James. She also sent Ruth on the correct path to who was running around with Wib. Like a bloodhound on the hunt, Ruth’s trail stopped and alerted at Alice James’s feet.
The woman was the devil herself at the helm of the church social circle. And Alice didn’t believe in shoving you out of the circle. She enjoyed putting her prey right in the center for everyone to watch while she played. Ruth certainly didn’t like the idea of Wib’s eyes being so easily swayed, especially toward a woman her senior. And yet what she actually hated about Alice was her cruelty. This would not do.
The evening service had been built around the tenth Commandment in Exodus 20:17. Coveting thy neighbor’s home, husband, wife. You name it. Ruth tried to make her eyes shoot flames through the back of Alice’s head. She sat in the pew so smug wrapped in her cashmere cardigan so casually thrown over her shoulders. It was then she decided that God did have a plan for her, and it involved Alice. This made her anxious to get home and solidify the plan.
As Ruth pushed the mudroom door open, she stayed true to her ritual. Three strides to the kitchen sink to wash off the evening. The supper and church service had wiped her out. It was evenings like this when she missed Wib the most. Even though he only half listened to her, it helped to talk through things out loud. As if when the words were spoken into the air, they stopped taking up valuable space in her head.
She thrived most with rituals. It was why the Kelvinator was always stocked with Blenheim’s. She and Wib would split one during the evening exchanges. Two small juice glasses with giant oranges on them and one spicy, bubbly drink. Ruth patted her hands dry on a dishtowel and reached for the juice glasses. Grabbing the Blenheim’s and bumping the fridge door with her hip, she headed to the basement door and navigated the steps down. A rush of heat mixed with burning wood hit her face. The old coal stove heated the house. Only now she fed it wood. Didn’t mean the old coal room was out of service.
Ruth made her way down the basement steps careful not to drop any of the glass. She placed the juice glasses on a serving tray she kept on a chair by the old coal room. Pausing, she tried to decide on whether or not to treat Wib to the pomp and circumstance of opening the bottle of Blenheim’s and hearing the snap and bubbles. Why not? Everyone deserves a little treat.
She used both hands to pull the door open. No more stench rolling out of the door like a putrid fog. That was good. Wib was just where she had left him, although he had dried some and slumped to the right. No matter. These small details could be fixed. Ruth carefully placed a towel down on the coal room floor so she wouldn’t track lord knows what through the house upstairs. She used a gentle hand to right Wib’s upper torso and head, careful not to let his neck snap.
She stepped back out of the door to observe her work. Perfect. As she lifted the serving tray, Wib’s head slumped to the right again. These things happened. She carefully placed the tray with its treats on the towel and poured two small glasses of the bubbly treat. Stepping back out, she seated herself in the chair and lifted the glass to her nose, letting the bubbles tickle her.
“You look awfully lonely tonight, Wib.”
Ruth swirled her drink as if it contained an expensive nip. She closed her eyes and imagined the basement as a grand ballroom full of live music and peals of laughter floating above the heads of beautiful people. She was one of those beautiful people.
“I’ve been thinking it might not be fair to leave you here alone all day while I work. Would you like some companionship?”
She opened her eyes and was back in her dark basement looking at Wib Miller half-mummified in her old coal cellar. Tiny juice glass of Blenheim’s sitting between his legs.
“I’m thinking that mean old hag Alice James will join you sooner than later. You wanted her so badly and all. Why should you do without?”
As Ruth raised her juice glass in Wib’s direction, she pushed her chest out and treated him to a brilliant smile while exclaiming, “To the men I’ve loved. To the men I’ve kissed. My heartfelt apologies. To the men I’ve missed.”
Katy Goforth is the author of Anchored (Belle Point Press) and Traveling Alone (Cowboy Jamboree Press, October 2025). Her writing has appeared in Brevity, Reckon Review, Cowboy Jamboree, Salvation South, and other journals. She is Pushcart, Best American Short Stories, and Best Small Fictions nominated. She was born and raised in South Carolina and lives with her spouse and two pups, Finn and Betty Anne. Learn more at katygoforth.com and follow her @katygoforthwrites.