A cross hung in the middle of the room where we sat. There was dust on the cross. Mya believed in Jesus, and in all his agony he watched us. The red light was on Jesus. I watched myself in the mirror. Mya continued on, and I adjusted my pants, unbuttoning them to give relief. In the condo she spoke of the reasons why she wouldn’t cook, that it was too hot to cook, and anyway when is the last time we went out, we should go out, we deserve this, she said. So we went out, out of the red condo, and I observed the couple next to us. They were unmoving, his hands in his lap and the woman’s hands on her phone. They didn’t speak. It was the kind of interaction I wished we could have, a quiet and melancholic intimacy. But Mya spoke and spoke. The food was subpar. The staff was efficient and kind. Mya did not pay attention to them in any way; she didn’t thank them when they refilled her glass of water. She spoke with her mouth open.

Mya burped in her hand. We paid the bill. At the pool, the children were gone. We shared a bottle of cabernet. It was late and no one was around. We put our feet in the water. The plastic container held our leftovers. Mya talked. We’d had shrimp, yucca, and rice in a garlic sauce.

The water was lit up by the lights inside the pool. The smell of chlorine. I wanted to get in but didn’t say so. We were dry. The shrimp, yucca, and rice in the plastic takeout container kept us company. I could see the window of Mya’s condo above us, the cross hanging on the wall, the ceiling fan moving almost imperceptibly, the redness all over. I watched the water move around our legs and I didn’t engage anymore. I didn’t nod in agreement or say yes yes, right, right, yes. Mya continued, and as I moved to get up she kept on, telling me how the next person would not be so lousy. I dried my legs against the length of my skirt and she said that no one was worthy of her, unworthy, she said, and as I turned my body away she repeated many times over how anyone should be so lucky.

HANGNAILS, AND OTHER DISEASES

1.

The loss of a language is dizzying. There are times when it’s lost. Words cannot be found and they will not come. It’s a blurry loss, sorrowful. Like the word for grapefruit. Yesterday, it was lost. Popillo? Popello? The word escapes me. To be bilingual is to be in a state of recovery.

2.