Short stories by Alice Munro, Lara Vapnyar, and Rebekah Bergman, and a poem by Ellen Bass

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Hazel was cold in this room.  When she checked into the Royal Hotel, earlier in the afternoon, a woman with a puff of gilt hair and a smooth, tapered face had given her the once-over, told her what time they served dinner, and pointed out the upstairs lounge as the place where she was to sit--ruling out, in this way, the warm and noisy pub downstairs.  Hazel wondered if women guests were considered too respectable to sit in the pub.  Or was she not respectable enough? 
--From "Hold Me Fast, Don't Let Me Pass," a short story by Alice Munro, first published in The Atlantic and reprinted in her story collection Friend of My Youth (Alfred A. Knopf, 1990/Vintage, 1991), pp. 74-105.

Vadik arrived in New York on a snowy Saturday morning in the middle of winter.  He woke up as the plane started its descent into J.F.K. and quickly raised his window shade, hoping to catch a glimpse of that famous Manhattan skyline, but all he saw was a murky white mess.  It was still thrilling.
--From "Waiting for the Miracle," a short story by Lara Vapnyar, The New Yorker (April 25, 2016), pp. 80-85.

A taxicab drove into her living room.  There was a gaping hole where her wall had been with half of a taxicab still inside it, and she felt like hosting a party.  She did not know why.  
--From "Theme Party," a short story by Rebekah Bergman, Hobart (May 31, 2016).

We play this age-old sport that's kind of like fetch, except instead of a tennis ball, it is our guilt.  Also, the goal of the game is that it won't come back to you.  
--From "Dog," a short story by Rebekah Bergman, Hobart (May 31, 2016).

I looked like a woman.  
--From "Failure," a poem by Ellen Bass, The New Yorker (June 6 & 13, 2016), pp. 84-85.