The Day After the Day of the Dead

“… and task demotion is nearly over,” she says.

“Sure, go north,” the man says. “Proceed past the turnpike interchange and…” He stops pointing west north west, rubs his chin and says, “whatever you were talking about… wait, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about getting up at 6:30 in the morning and driving 16 hours to have an affair in a friend’s apartment, who isn’t really a friend just a big burly kissy-guy that likes to hug and give me cloth-band watches. There’s no sex, just a lot of staring at each other from opposing sofas.

There’s no telling what journaling will do. I wrote a story about semiotics in French, and according to him it’s tantamount to liberalism — or is it illiberalism?

Or it may be Antioch in antifreeze — or was it Antioch and antifreeze? It’s the preponderance of the evidence, which in this case is scant, but also attractive to dogs and super furry stuffed animals placed in reverence at the base of a tzompantli.

Hey, are you listening to me? Are you listening to this that I’m telling you on the Day of the Dead?”

She rolls down window fully, so that he could get an unobstructed view of her face, so that he could see that she is serious.

“Technically, it’s the day after the Day of the Dead, lady,” the man says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. Fingers his keys, a quarter, some lint. “I believe you’re the one that missed it, m’am. Just go ahead and drive off, and have yourself a day while you’re at it.”

“Everyone is drunk today.  
Everyone is preparing for sex today. Little 
turquoise boxes with white ribbon are hand-
delivered around town today. The smell of 
beef is powerful. The cemeteries are still full.”

— Victoria Chang / “How Much”