1   Bruna’s hands make her seem older than she is. In fact, Bruna is definitively young. Someone broke up with her because of the look of her dry hands. She places her dry hands on the steering wheel. Bruna refuses to hide them, she refuses to be ashamed.

BENDING

On a crowded train underground, I refused to give my seat to a woman cradling a baby. I left her standing with the baby close to her breasts. Together they swayed.

The area outside moved fast, until it didn’t. The train didn’t shift again for three minutes. Then seven minutes, then twenty-five, stuck underground, and someone decided to light a cigarette. For thirty-seven minutes the smoke filled us. We couldn’t see the culprit though we searched for him. It was so crowded that some people touched the ceiling to keep their balance. Their hands were up, high up, their wrists bent back. Hands up, as if waiting to be selected in a classroom, as if waiting for authority, and cotton shirts pulled over all the nostrils, the chemical compounds, the chorus of coughing. A cry.

Everyone was bending their knees, upon the woman’s small breasts the baby was bending its knees, and the smoke played with us. Someone, a woman, yelled to the unknown culprit: Put out that goddamn thing right now, or I swear, I swear to God.

HAINT

I couldn’t explain, but the candle burned for longer than usual and the smell of peonies persisted. The flowers leaned a little more to the side; the painting was more purple or more morose. The feathers didn’t move at all. The red light that signaled the television’s rest was piercing, a bright red light that even the black tape couldn’t cover. The corner held the shadow of clothing and made shapes with them. The fan didn’t cool the skin; it only made noise. The pillows were uncomfortable; I found no ease in them. The white sheets seemed cleaner than ever before. The mirror was clean too and held no discernible streaks.

My eye pencils were consumed. My head was covered with diamonds. I couldn’t balance; the equilibrium couldn’t be kept. I wore a braid down my back and a trench coat. Or a white turtleneck, leather pants, platform heels; things I had never worn. The hair that came free of a braid moved as if in wind, even if there was no wind. My nails were painted a purple/blue, and the smell of lime was everywhere.

In the kitchen I found things already sliced into neat circles and waiting on a plate. In the garbage I found things. I found pickled daisies, lockets, coarse salt, whole grains, swans, wooden chairs, and mortadella. The bed was dented in inexplicable places; the ceiling became vaulted.

The crown moldings remained the same and I was glad.