My Cardboard Balcony

Date Night by Belinda Roddie We are the oddest couple sitting in the taquería, and that says a lot. After all, the old hombre with the copper snake is nestled in the corner, feeding the scaly thing crumbs of beef from his disintegrating taco. I look down at my plate of chorizo, then at my hands. They're the color, and probably the texture, of burned leather. She doesn't seem to mind, though, quietly sipping her mojito. Her red curls fall in wet lumps across her forehead, her shriveled knees twitching against her wheelchair. She smiles at me, to let me know that she's doing okay. Tomorrow, we travel south, to see my family. Mi padre doesn't take kindly to our marriage. He says we are being tested by God, and we must rise to the challenge. Usually, when he gets going, I nod and hide my raised middle finger behind my can of mango soda. We are odd, yes, in this part of town. We are color in a city hall pamphlet of grays and blacks and whites. W

Did you think my actions were deliberate? Did you think if I could take it all back, I wouldn't? The baseball bat that the bully wielded is red with blood now. His blood. I only wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel physically what I felt emotionally. I was fractured on the inside, like a split bone or fragmented glass. I thought striking the bastard would fix me. It didn't.