At a red light, I open my door and touch the asphalt. I take my time
with it; feel as many individual rocks as I can. When I look up, the
light is still red. I have to close my door twice so the warning chime
A Month of Sundays
For a month of Sundays, we've fished the streets together, casting our
lines into the sea under the city and pulling back lemon fish, snapper
and the occasional mahi-mahi. I clean a few for frying, but we let the
others go. We're not cruel.
I say to Dorian, I can't shake it. I'm jealous of every man in my wife's
world. We've three children together, but I don't think I'll ever feel
Trust, says Dorian. He squeezes a cut of lemon over his steaming plate.
Heels clop, horns blow. The ocean around us heaves and palpitates.
And even though she's cycloped, I say, I eye every gesture, every turn
and twitch of her mouth. I walk on eggshells, waiting.
My wife, Dorian says, Would leave me in a minute for somebody with a boat.