Viernes Para Recordar
by Sam Moe
You, body exhausted and mind racing, alone on the faded gold couch in her living room. Fourth-floor apartment with decaying steps, more than the occasional cockroach in the kitchen, once there were mice and now there are rats, some- times centipedes, the landlord took away the claw-foot tub and this, too, becomes a mourning. It is late, witching hour, still time to go before morning rises over Manhattan, yet there are still people awake, screaming, singing, laughing, in the distance are sirens, more laughter. In your ear, soft and warm, a single, loud sigh.
READ MORE