I look at the baby doll abandoned on the floor next to its ripped box, its unblinking blue eyes staring back at me. One of its fat cloth legs has been ripped off in the fight.
Your eyes follow their tiny finger and, sure enough, there’s a nine-millimeter handgun lying in the middle of your neighborhood street at eight in the morning on Fat Tuesday.
Once my father finishes and leaves, my mother leans back into her chair, rests her eyes on the clock above us, and begins to recall the lovers of her past.
My profile was very clear. In my photo my lips were puckered, my eyes narrowed seductively. Rose emojis meant I wasn’t giving freebies. I talked a big game on the app, but I had only turned one trick so far and had no idea what I was doing.