She arched her eyebrow then let out a sharp laugh. “Perverse is a compliment. The people pulling your strings are the only people in the world who can make a woman look uglier than I can. I respect that. I respect them. Of you, I have no opinion—yet.” She finished her champagne and again, dropped the coupe. It shattered at her feet. “Come by my studio whenever you get back to Paris. Let me see if there’s more to you than men’s trousers and a pretty face.” She slid the tray to the floor and walked away through the puddle and shards of glass. 

My mother had been too young, too pretty and had died too soon after giving birth to me, Sister Clemence told me. Of my father, she knew nothing. There was no name anywhere. Telling us children our histories was strictly forbidden but Sister Clemence had a soft place in her Christ-licked heart for me. I reminded her of a child she had lost when she, too, had been too young. Shortly thereafter, she took her vows. She smothered me in hugs smelling of laundry soap, incense and sweat, and kisses disturbingly wet. Touch was also verboten. Sister Clemence was bit of a dissenter.

The violent blue of the Florida Chicken sign woke Farhan up at three a.m.—an hour and a half before his alarm went off. For the past three months, a bowling chicken in blue shorts with a purple question mark above its head had shaken him from sleep. He imagined that the chicken rose with the same nightmare as his, and that they both wondered why Farhan stayed in this country despite the warnings to leave.

Half mile before I reach the store, I see a runner on the sidewalk. She’s wearing a white top and navy blue shorts.  It is within her powers, I’m sure, to slow traffic approaching her from behind.  A minute later, getting out of my car, I see her again, running through the store parking lot, which seems odd. Maybe there’s sidewalk repair going on; she’s taken an alternate route. I pause as she runs by, then pause a few seconds more. 

In his dreams he flew in a blue sky, words swirling around him. He’d pass a building and the words would be illuminated with the vocabulary of the city. Skyscraper, ledge, birds, custody, deposition, and toothpaste were all translated from Urdu into English. Phrases like “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” swam into him. The dream made his job easier because he knew what the customers at the drugstore were talking about: the twin towers falling, the toothpaste on sale, or the birds shitting on their cars. But last night a wind had scattered the language and torn him apart, causing him to wake up in a cold sweat. 

When Aaron finishes, he rolls off of me and goes into the other room and grabs a shaving kit out of his backpack and disappears into the bathroom. When he comes out he’s different. His eyes are glazed over and docile. It seems like if I reached out and touched him he would break. He leans in and pecks me on the cheek, grabs the weed off the dresser, and leaves. 

Aaron drives for Radio Cab and doesn’t get off work until late. He always says he’s going to take me star gazing out by the airport, but he never does. We always do the same thing: I wander off somewhere until the sun’s about to come up, and he picks me up and takes me to my apartment and we sit around and drink beers and smoke and I let him fuck me. Stars don’t impress me, anyway.