We were wrestling in the living room, which was our first mistake. We were in our underwear, which was our second mistake. Dozens, tens of dozens, of pale-pink statues surrounded us, large and small, ancient Mexican figurines—goddesses and gods—attached by brackets to the white brick wall around the fireplace, balanced on transparent Plexiglas stands on the mantel, and migrating outward in small families and clusters onto bookshelves and tabletops. The biggest figures, the size of cats, were displayed on metal pedestals, narrow legs set down into the white shag carpeting.,,
[Story in Fall 2009 issue of Inkwell Magazine]
...His mother would be home soon. A premade dinner was heating slowly for us in the oven. Roast beef and potatoes. We sat at the kitchen table, quietly sipping Cokes. Outside the light had gone. A painting of a city I did not know hung near me on the wall. Dots of red and blue and green and white swam in a sea of black. I could see myself in the painting, in the city I did not know. Little, floating bits of color. To view the whole image, one had to first step backward. And then imagine what was even possible.
