SFUAD Creative Writing major Marina Woollven recently won third place in Playboy Magazine’s annual fiction writing contest. Jackalope presents Woollven’s award-winning story. “How long has it been?” Anna asked. “Since you last saw George?” They were at the pool because they had no place else to be on a Saturday. Anna worked on the weekdays to fill her time but for Marcy, the housewife, every day was a Saturday. Long and empty, begging for the time to be filled. She was glad that for today, she could fill that time by sinking and gliding into deep cool water, instead of vacuuming the same carpet and dusting the same shelves for the fifth time in a week, or sitting on the couch and watching sitcom reruns until she could recite the lines. “Seven months,” Marcy said, slow and firm. She hadn’t trusted herself to say it. Out in the air, did it sound bitter? If it did, Anna didn’t notice, or pretended to not care. “That’s a long time, hun.” It was, wasn’t it? Seven months since George went to ‘find himself,’ as if having a midlife crisis when he had barely finished College. Maybe that was harsh, but he married her and three months later, left her beautiful face with a beautiful house and no one to appreciate either. He wanted to go to Alabama, of all places. Not Ireland. Not England. Not even New York. Fucking Alabama. “Just the boys. Old times. You understand, right?” he had said. She was young. Only twenty-two. She didn’t want to fight when George had given her everything… even everything came from his inheritance instead of his career, like other men. Still, she was grateful. “It’s fine,” she’d told him. The lonely bride even believed it for...