ByOlivia Ciacci

Olivia Ciacci writes fiction in Columbia University's MFA program. Her writing can be found on Reductress, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, The Conium Review, and The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review. Before coming to New York, Ciacci taught high school English and did improv comedy. Follow her online @PartTimeLady.

  1. 1. 1994, Record store in suburban mall, Southeastern Pennsylvania Green barn jacket, jeans, t-shirt, and a limp little bra, more of a band-aid than anything architectural. Sneakers. I’m looking for Toad the Wet Sprocket’s album Dulcinea. On cassette tape. “Can I help you, sir?”  The sales guy has long frizzy hair, the kind that acts of its own accord, independent of gravity or conditioner. “Miss.” “Sorry?” “MISS. I am a GIRL.” He blinks. Mild perturbation flits…