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
The Book of Rusty
by Benjamin Drevlow
This story was selected as a finalist for the 2021 MAYDAY Fiction Prize and nominated for The Best of the Net. If anybody was ever gonna write the Book of Rusty which nobody was, nobody including not Rusty, but if they were they’d have to trace its origins all the way back to seventh grade. […]
Wound
by Jessica Turney
I wash around the wound on your back, press my fingers and rub around the cut, flat and long, like the road you needed to take home. After the accident I wanted to say, let this be a road to take you far away from California, broken elbows and promises from bad men, friends who […]
Painting to Empower: An Interview with Artist Harmonia Rosales
by Aya Kusch
Ever since she began her art career, Rosales’s main artistic concern has been focused on black female empowerment in western culture. Her paintings depict and honor the African diaspora. The artist is entirely open to the ebb and flow of contemporary society which she seeks to reimagine in new forms of aesthetic beauty, snuggled somewhere […]
