Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets.
The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from home, as a jab to our m…
It's not la hueva that kicks in
that makes me feel heavy--
from my forehead
to my belly button
blood is thicker than water
and though my heart yearns for you
my stomach churns
¿porque no vienes a visitar me?
I'm never able to tell you:
because I don't want to stay there long
because when I go I feel like I have to stay there forever
and all I've ever wanted to do is leave
I tell you to come with me
why don't you leave
your home behind
come and use that money,
and buy a place close to me,
come to me
but you won't come
you say your house is worth more
then what the brokers want to pay
you say you don't want a condominium
you will feel boxed in
you love your garden and your flowers and the roses and the mamey canopy and your lapiz lazuli stair rails and your black iron gate and your dried grapevines and I love them too and I love you
duele ir a visitarte
que estas sola
When my parents divorced, my dad met a Filipina woman named Mar. To affirm their courtship, she invited my brothers and me for dinner at her duplex first-floor apartment in Lincoln Park.
"Have some, Carmen," she said when she noticed me looking at the lumps sizzling in a black pan on the stainless steel stove.
"It's ground beef," she said, giving me a curved white plate, the kind you find in Ikea. "Your dad told me you don't like liver."
I continued to stare at the pan, watching Mar scoop up some ground beef with her wooden spoon.
"Thank you," I said before I walked to the table directly across from the stove. It was a small apartment but it was cozy and clean. I felt my spirit safe in this place.
Mar placed a tray of tortillas on the table and my dad and brothers hands were like tentacles immediately attacking the tray. I, at last, grabbed two tortillas (I like my tacos doubled up) and made my taco. The sweet meaty juice dripped down my…