In Produce, there was Leticia, my ex, examining a cantaloupe. In a diaphanous yellow halter and black short shorts, she looked great, her cart full of vegetables. She shook her head. “You don’t look too good,” she said, “you should get some sun. Ta-ta.” She steered her cart toward the nuts and granola bulk bins while I headed to the cash register. In the Outdoor Shop, she appeared from behind one of the mirrored doors holding two pairs of nylon running shorts as I tried on a Buzz Off hat and shirt. “Be careful, those are expensive,” she said. Now I noticed the birthmark on her cheek, the delicate blue veins at her temples. It had been a year since she threw the pan at me and broke the window, a year since she yelled, “The one time I ask you to clean up your mess, you ask me to help?”, a year since I built a bonfire in the backyard and burned up all her Aveda Cosmetics and her drawer of sexy underwear, a year since we split apart like two avocado halves—”Are you living with anyone” I asked. “Never again,” she answered and took her shorts to the cash register—a year since she delivered all my jeans, shirts and shoes to the Salvation Army and dropped our shelves of food in the bin for the Church at the grocery, a year since I robbed petty cash and ran our old Dodge into a tree, a year since she kidnapped the dog and the parakeet. At the stoplight waiting for the signal to change, suddenly Leticia stood next to me. “Why did we break up?” I asked. “Why did we ever get together?” she replied. And as I made my way through the diner to the last seat at the counter, there she was, her hand on the swivel seat. “You can have it,” she said. “No, you can have it,” I said, and this went on awhile until a tall bald guy sat down between us, “Would you mind?” he asked. “Enjoy your chicken pot pie,” I said, walking away. “Enjoy your chicken pot pie,” she said, walking away in the opposite direction. Later when I opened the door to my apartment, on the couch, there was Leticia; in the bathroom mirror, Leticia swabbing her face; in the bedroom, Leticia sprawled on top of me; in the kitchen, Leticia brewing up the coffee as I hunkered down over a piece of cake, fierce as a hungry squirrel.
Further Reading
Untitled by Tatiana Neshumova
(Translated from Russian by J. Kates)
In my enormous head Winter dragged itself along. And the head was majestic. But an old man With blue eyes, chesty, Said nothing to me of being blind. And we ran off to his house. And I kissed His enormous head And his snow-white mouth. Already a year has passed since he died. But winter […]
Contributor Bios for Issue 4 Summer 2011
Issue 4 Summer 2011 ADETOKUNBO ABIOLA is a Nigerian journalist and writer. He has published Labulabu Mask, a novel (Macmillan Nigeria). He has also published in print and online magazines such as Rake Journal, BBC Focus on Africa Magazine, Flask Review, Zapata!, Liberation Lit, Sage of Consciousness Review, Africa Writer.Com, Big Pulp, the One World Global Anthology, The November 3rd Club, Mobius-Journal for Social Change, Dog Eat Crow […]
Moon Garden by Suzanne Richardson
It was the summer Nan turned eight that she and her father had planted the moon garden at their holiday home in Oxfordshire. Her father, a history professor at Oxford during the year, but an avid horticultural hobbyist, happened to read about the art of medieval Japanese nocturnal gardens in April. By May, he decided […]
