ArticleContributorColumn

I wonder if that’s his secret. I wonder if he’s still feeding off his mother’s smile, or her energy, or her joy

It was wonderfully hot, full of the roaring hiss of the deep fryer, pots clanging, Javier whistling, Bea presiding over an enormous pot of cabbage, telling jokes

He looks. Three pieces of paper. One rough pen. A vial of ink. She speaks. “So that you can teach me,” she says

“Show me your pass.” She’s brimming with authority, inflated as a helium balloon. I stutter, the words stuck in my throat like marbles

“We really, really do not care what is wrong with the plan or the setup or the gift or anything, okay? So don’t say a word”

I am not in control. Nothing I do makes any difference. The thought came, not as a burst of sublime inspiration, but as a reflexive fact