A year and three months ago a stray bullet caught Mina in the face, just grazing it. She has a scar that trails down her left eye, back to her left ear. The scar looks like one tear crying. Sometimes, lightning strikes twice.
The world felt like something awful impending. June gloom had set in early; Mercury was back in retrograde. Everyone was jittery, uncertain, a little gun shy.
It was an easy thing, that winter, to realize that you were not, in fact, you—rather you were the untitled, draft email of yourself, addressed to no one.
I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.
Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.
That morning at Rincon marked a change in my relationship to the dinosaurs. Fewer and fewer would muster when I called a session until I stopped doing it so much. Felt like I was bugging them.
I wanted a girl I could take my sunglasses off for. I wanted a girl that wanted to hold my reflection in the center of her eyes.
Mosi is Sprite, Banji is Coca Cola. Whoever loses, does the rounds to check for hippos that might have strayed too far.
What’s it like to die? To stop being. Gone in a moment, carried away on the wind. Does it hurt?
How a mother could be so? Why when she’s in the same room with me I feel swallowed up by a heavy coat pulling me down?