Skip to main content

Isn't It Pretty?

"Isn't it pretty to think so?"

She threaded her fingers into his hair. It was dark and smelled musky like it needed to be washed soon. She rested her nose on the top of his head.

"Pretty to think what?" he asked.

"To think that this," she gestured with a shrug "will not last."

He pulled away from her,"But I wanted it to last."

He looked at her, eyes wide and clear.

"This is the worst day of my life. Why do you think it's pretty?"

He pulled back even further the lines of his face etched deeply between his brows.

"I just thought--I mean it's pretty to think there will never be another moment like this again. Even if it's horrible, it's pretty to think you can never lose him again. The way you feel will never happen again."

She looked at him and reached out again, but this time he pulled away and pressed his back firmly against the worn brown couch.

"I can't believe--I mean I understand but don't say those things to me when--" Jacob's voice broke.

He got up and moved toward the kitchen. His dad had left dishes in the sink from the night before. The trash was full and smelled of ripe oranges. Jacob grabbed the red plastic handles and cinched the bag tight locking out the smell. Dana stood in the doorway, her mouth about to open until she saw the closed tight white line of his mouth.

He walked past her to the back door, wordless.

She looked around and finally walked toward the sink, pushed the sleeves of her beige sweater up, and turned on the faucet. The sound of the running water echoed in the silence and sounded even louder once the door closed. She ran her fingers under the water to test the temperature, gasped, and pulled away. Her skin scalded.

"Leave them. I'll clean-up."

"No, I want to help--I want..." her voice trailed off.

The water still ran in the background. She grabbed a sponge and squirted soup on it.

"I said leave it!"

Dana turned and looked at him. His face was red and pinched. Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth. Without saying a word she turned back toward the sink and grabbed a food crusted dish. She felt his hand on her shoulder tighten as he spun her around
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time?
3 comments
Read more

Los Dichos

No hay mal que por bien no venga. Tanto quiere el diablo a su hijo que hasta un ojo le quiere sacar. Mejor sola que mal acompa ñ ada. Tanto pedo para cagar aguado. Lo barato sale caro. Más seguro más amarrado. Para buen entendido muy pocas palabras. Para cada roto un descocido. Hijo pepe mariquita! Para pendeja no se estudia. Limosnero con garrote. Soy como Orozco, cuando como no conozco. La zorra nunca ve su cola ni el zorrillo su fundillo. El muerto y el arrimado al los tres días huelen. Amores de lejos, amores de pendejos. Estaba haciendo chili con la cola. Me  da diarrea con gusanos. Enfermo que come y mea, y el diablo que se le crea. La esperanza es la última que muere. El flojo trabaja doble. De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Una cosa es Juan Domínguez y otra cosa es no la chingues. Es de Don Cuco, entra la bola no se supo. Primero me besa un ciego. Dime con quién andas y te diré quien eres. No porque te levantas más temprano
2 comments
Read more

Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi
3 comments
Read more