A Dance with the Devil by Lorette C. Luzajic
The start of the sound, Sunday salsa in the square. The ice xocoatl is my only relief from the oppressive blaze of the sun, but the locals don’t seem to notice or mind.
The start of the sound, Sunday salsa in the square. The ice xocoatl is my only relief from the oppressive blaze of the sun, but the locals don’t seem to notice or mind.
Paul couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Each day he woke up a little shorter. I must be shrinking, Paul thought.
She cleared out dead people’s houses, kept something from every house – a spoon or a postcard maybe, once a Bay City Rollers badge, another time a glass swan — binned the rest of the menagerie.
When Leanna’s mother dies, her father takes up gardening. Purple loosestrife and puncture vines sprout from between his lips: winding up her mother’s tomato plants, covering Leanna’s window, clogging the neighbours’ eaves, injuring cattle and choking wetlands, blocking out the sun.
I sat down to make a list of the reasons we no longer sleep together—but there’s no list, just the one thing neither of us want to talk about.