by Mónica de la Torre

    Sonya's so good that all the guys

    pick on her， so the evening's narrative goes. I've heard she wears

    yellow t-shirts each time to match her hair. Last time her tennis

    shoes got so dusty that she had to throw them out because there

    was no way on earth that they could be white again.

    Trunks shrink like deflated accor-

    dions， like melodramatic arguments after they've met face to

    face with someone's indifference. A baby cries and pouts

    while her mother is trying to scoop more Velveta on to her

    nacho. The father is strung out on something， someone in

    back of us says. A teenager with severe acne turns around

    and fires a dart full of cavities into my gaze. We give in to the

    pleasure of destruction for the sheer sake of waste. What

    inside， the collision， the jerk on the nape that makes the

    driver wonder whether this one's it. Swallow me dust while

    the crowd cheers and claps its French fries away into the

    space between a nearby neon and the floodlights gathering

    an army of many sized moths.