Sonya's so good that all the guys pick on her, so the evening's narrative goes. I've heard she wears yellow t-shirts each time to match her hair. Last time her tennis shoes got so dusty that she had to throw them out because there was no way on earth that they could be white again. Trunks shrink like deflated accor- dions, like melodramatic arguments after they've met face to face with someone's indifference. A baby cries and pouts while her mother is trying to scoop more Velveta on to her nacho. The father is strung out on something, someone in back of us says. A teenager with severe acne turns around and fires a dart full of cavities into my gaze. We give in to the pleasure of destruction for the sheer sake of waste. What inside, the collision, the jerk on the nape that makes the driver wonder whether this one's it. Swallow me dust while the crowd cheers and claps its French fries away into the space between a nearby neon and the floodlights gathering an army of many sized moths.
Mónica de la Torre
Victor got a real sense of power from making his own raisins. He’d buy pounds and pounds of grapes and leave them to dry on the kitchen table. Theresa didn’t want to hear about her ex-husband’s cancer. Not on Father’s Day. She took a train all night to have breakfast with her cousin. All Sunday she rode the train back. Once Martin’s wife had left, he decided to take advantage of her space. He built a sauna where her closet was, sat there every morning, to read the paper and Buddha. One night Helga wore her prettiest dress, though she knew he wouldn’t be there. She drank dry white, got drunk (she was on a diet), and fell down. Later he saw the holes in her pantyhose. María was usually bumping into furniture. Each time she got closer to what she wanted. "What do you want from me?" "Nothing," he replied, so she took off and felt like migrating birds. But many.