“Texas is like a white trash Canada. It should feel like its own country, new and different, but it feels inbred. You seriously feel like a psychologist when you have to stay here, you feel like a genius in a field of retards.”

He leans forward and lights a cigarette. Coreen stares at us, “Oh. That’s not true at all. Texas has a lot of beauty to it. True, it has some bad qualities, but anywhere does.”

“Don’t try to sugarcoat a redneck shit sandwich.”

She shakes her head at him and looks over to me, “Oh, I don’t want to have to elaborate.”

—No time to elaborate. The fire and wind and flowers are fusing. I check my watch and wipe off the back of my neck. The cherry sunsets of Venus are lost, the vastness of its lemon iron heart is lost. Streets streaked with penny gold and laced velvet windows are gone now, gone forever, and where they once stood is now a city with a blank face. Sun dead and grey, fields which harvest nothing but replication of dirt and weeds. We have been left and forgotten here. Left to breathe, fuck, and rot. Which is fine. I imagine it was always like this. It was always a displaced sky. I smell their skin from across the room, sulfuric and salty. I remember Angel’s take on the ocean. She said it was delicious. I saw it for the first time in 6 years with her. We had parked by the pier in Pismo, and I’d tasted her stomach beneath the bloody wind. We had intercourse in full view of the water, and I convulsed into her from behind, holding up the back of her dress, yellow and bright, while she gripped the rail at the end of the pier. Two bums were fishing off the side behind us. We were quiet and heavy there, and gulls made hungry swoops close to us but the fishermen on the shore threw stones at them.

Angel rests her hand on my knee. We’ve been driving since Albuquerque. From there we had driven from Stockton. I’d met Angel while she was there with her parents. We had a three day fling. Her father was stationed in Germany. Her mother was from Spain. Her real father was doing life in a Spanish prison for murdering her mother’s lover, a teenage boy she’d met on the streets of Badalona. Her stepfather met her mother by chance somewhere in Europe. He’s from Stockton. Her mother was poor, and she married the bastard because she and her daughter were almost homeless. Angel is seventeen. I’m twenty-seven. Her stepfather used to stand in the shower behind her and masturbate. He never had sex with her, he said he was waiting until her eighteenth birthday. When Angel told her mother about it, her mother hit her and called her a liar. Angel is heartbroken over her mother. Angel’s English is broken and hot. She called me collect from Germany for half a year. The phone bills were insane. I didn’t care. When they flew back over before summer, Angel ran away from them and we hit the road. We’ve been on the run for weeks. We’re sitting in Dallas with my brother and his girlfriend. They know our story. Angel and Coreen have bonded like sisters. Coreen had similar problems with her mother’s husband, but her mother pressed charges and left him immediately when Coreen told her. The guy took a deal. He’s out now, but he’s out of the picture. Coreen and my brother are in their thirties. My brother builds houses. Coreen works at her mother’s cafe. Billy met Coreen in Phoenix. They lived there for a year. She wanted to move back to Texas.

Billy’s a tough motherfucker, but when it comes to Coreen he’s a small child. Coreen’s a tall, healthy Texas girl. She burns up any room she walks in. And now I have Angel, and Angel’s one sexy bitch. I hate to call her that, but she is, she’s the ultimate bitch. She’s tall and sculpted. Her skin is bronze fire. Her coal hair hangs in her face when she sleeps. Her lips are red and full. Her nose is flawless. Her eyes are deep black. When I watch her I can see God Himself rubbing his thumbs across her frontal lobe, smearing her brow with golden skin. He has a long beard with blood and flesh wiped across his smock. He crafted her as a completely separate project. When she talks my skin jumps. Her fingers are long and slim. Her feet are arched and smooth. Even her toes drop me to my knees. Angel loves me. Angel doesn’t love many people, maybe no others. She grew up hard and mean on the streets of Spain. She’s seen more death and disgust than any American. She likes to lick my eyes. I fight to keep them open while she does it, but I hang strong. She tells me my eyes are the doors to Heaven. She won’t let me cut my hair anymore. It hangs down to my chin. She bites it while we fuck. She tells me when we stop running somewhere she wants me to give us a baby. She talks about how beautiful the baby will be. She’s seen the child in her sleep. It is a boy and he is a perfect mixture of us and God. I don’t believe in God, but I don’t tell her that. I obsess over her ass and her thighs, over the grip of her sex. She sleeps nude on her side. I watch any available light carve around her body. She owns the Sun and the Moon, the ocean and the earth. All is her slave.

Billy lights two cigarettes and hands one over. Coreen doesn’t smoke. Angel won’t touch them. I take the smoke and blow rings over the table. Angel smiles and breaks the rings with her breath. She squeezes my arm and rests her knees on my lap. She turns eighteen in nine days. We’re getting married at the time of her birth. Angel’s mother became blind for survival. The prick she’s married to is in relentless pursuit of Angel with her. I know he married her mother to get Angel. I know he wants my head. They have the cops involved. He’s playing on that soldier bullshit. He’s an upper-ranks man now. I know it drives him batshit to think about my mouth in between Angel’s hot ass cheeks. It doesn’t matter. In nine days she’ll have my name. I only have fifteen hundred saved in my pocket. Billy is going to pay me cash to be a laborer. Angel is fine with being at the house with Coreen. She can go to work with her and help in Coreen’s mother’s shop. I don’t think Angel likes Texas. But she understands. One of my buddies lives down in Morelia, and he told me when I get some good coin saved up I can slip across the border with Angel and live there. Nobody gives a fuck about us in Mexico. Coreen goes into the kitchen to make drinks. My brother and I are flying on mescaline. It’s my first time. I’m sweating bullets. Angel laughs at me. I tell her I’m thirsty. She gets up and walks into the kitchen. Billy watches her ass, “Goddamn, man. You better hold onto that shit.”

“Tooth and nail.”

The girls come in with the drinks. Wild Turkey and water. Billy leans back with his drink, “So this cocksucker has a bead on you?”

Angel looks at me.

“Jad,” I say to her. She rolls her eyes and sets her drink down. Her breasts are fucking perfect. Her shoulders and neck, all of her screams at every moment. My brother glances into her dress. Coreen slaps him. He laughs, “His name’s Jad? Fuck, man. He was born to be an asshole.”

I put my smoke out and wipe the air clean for Angel’s face. She kisses my neck. I pick up the glass, “I bought the car off this dirtbag in Modesto. I transferred the plates and title in Reno. I insured it in Medford. It took a few days of zig-zagging, but we appear to be heading north.”

Billy smiles into the ashtray, “That was smart.”

“I’m not worried about it. If by some fucking chance they find me first I can say I had no idea about any of it. I’ve never met him. I’ve seen a few pictures. He doesn’t look too bright. But you can’t be sure.”

Angel picks up on some of the words. I rub her knee, “But if I can get a few months of straight work here, we’ll be alright. We can coast off the money in some Mexican shithole by the water, and come back in a few years.”

Billy takes a long drink from his whiskey and lights another smoke. A drop of sweat plunges from his brow into the paper. It wears the paper away and the tobacco creeps up to the surface. He laughs and sets it on the table, lights a new one. Coreen grabs the empties and goes to pour the refills. Angel kisses me and runs after her to help. Billy and I stare at each other and sweat. He peers over my shoulder. I look back and watch the guy across the street park his truck on the lawn. Billy laughs. Coreen sets the drinks down on the coffee table and lets the dog out. Angel comes in and takes her place by my side.

the straps slipped off my shoulders and the silk slid down my thighs

there was a zipper on the side but it was never utilized I am compromised

it was never hard to hide for their eyes want nothing more than to glide by

I stopped wearing pants he only rips them, it's much easier to allow the skirt to be raised above my head as he throws me in bed

how did I not see

where this road led

the first time he touched me it was soft and the first time he was rough I thought this is how it feels to be loved

he was the first guy I ever fucked

how could I expect anything less they all say it hurts but this was worse I have suffocated on my own spread legs and I've done everything to make him stay

I even looked past

when he got laid

they say the first cut is the deepest but I've been gutted and never stopped bleeding

I have counted the rounds from the ground as the fan spun around and I never screamed loud I never made a sound

how could you comprehend the way I bend and the rush he sends down my spine

toxic torture twisted torn

I'm just too damn scared

to be alone

I peered into our spacious closet. Despite the airy room and the ceiling fan going strong, I could feel the sweat beading down the curves of my spine. I made my way to the drawers, shifting my way through the layers of chiffon and silk to find my favorite old cotton t-shirt. Finally I find it, hidden in the back corner, full of wrinkles, worn thin from years of being tumbled dry.

“Sweet Pea, what are you doing?” I froze with the shirt held out in front of me. My back turned to the honeyed voice in the door.

“Just wanted something to wear that breathed a little, the humidity is making me miserable.” I spoke in my most polite tone, lowering the shirt a little to hide it from view. “I thought you had gone into the office.”

I heard his feet move closer, a sinking feeling in my gut as his hands came down authoritatively on my shoulders.

“You know, I thought we had thrown that shirt out. Don’t you think you would be so much more comfortable in that yellow sundress I like so much?” He reached forward, taking the shirt in his hand, “You know the Carvers said they might stop by this afternoon, you wouldn’t want them to feel embarrassed because you weren’t put together, now would you?”

I force my tense shoulders to rotate with my legs, turning to face my husband, now in full control of the offensive shirt.

“Well, dear, I don’t know that they would be embarrassed to see me in a t-shirt and shorts, but no, I don’t mind wearing that sundress. Would you like for me to make anything special for when they come over?”

I see anger ripple across his features, gone before I could tell you exactly what it was that changed.

He stepped forward and wrapped me in his arms; I force my shoulders to relax, to curve into his embrace.

“Now Sweet Pea, you know I think you are beautiful no matter what, but I’m the only one who will ever think that. So don’t you think you should always try and look the best you can for everyone else?”

Tears threaten to come up as I feel my teeth jerk together. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pulling away to see glassy, defeated eyes. Not this time.

Sofia threw on the cutest little sundress she bought earlier this week. She happened to be at the right place at the right time. The store was about to take the summer clothes off the shelves. She had arrived there just in time and now had a dress for her date tonight with Thomas. He was a very handsome fellow with a bit of an edge. His smile was almost too perfect for his face, and his eyes were as brown as the soil in her garden. Sofia gave the guy a chance anyway after all what could go wrong. When he arrived later that night to pick her up she invited him in for a bit of conversation to relax all nerves. They talked and laughed for a long period of time. It was all going wonderful until Thomas took a joke way to far. The rubber band hit the ceiling fan and gave it a limp. It started to scrape and screech. Sofia was furious and outraged at how he could just do something like that. It was clearly an accident but something in her mind ticked. She told him to fix it immediately. He was in shock from all the sudden commotion. She started to push him towards the tool closest. He tried to step aside calm her to apologize, but she was red in the face. He turned around and gathered the tools in his hands. She grabs ahold of his shirt and as her nails dug in she pulled him under the ceiling fan.

"You're tall enough to reach it without a stool. So fix it." She said.

At this point Thomas was frightened. He fixed it enough to where it didn't look damaged and it didn't screech. She later apologized for the commotion and asked him where he wanted to go for dinner. Thomas quickly made up an excuse to get into his car and drive far away.

Purple polka dots decorate her arms and legs

She is sitting on the bed watching the fan when

He enters and demands to know

Why aren't you ready yet?

She stares at his empty eyes and shrugs as she dresses herself

She puts on the same sundress she wore the night he proposed

Will you marry me?

And she remembered those summer nights tangles in his arms for hours

She remembered when those arms felt safe and warm

But now all she sees are her arms

Violet and blue and black

And she gets up

She looks in the mirror and crimes

There's no point in fighting

When all he'll do is fight back

The churning of the ceiling fan was the noise I focused on while listening to the dialogue in my head. It was insufferably hot. I stunned a fly with my bandana and then let him go outside because I'd been on a recent bender about not killing stuff. Just a normal fly.

I wasn't going to let her do this to me again. I'd had enough. Pushing her way into my life and threatening me with crazy if I didn't let her stay. She was slowly separating me from everyone else; the gazelle to her lion. She wanted me to get mad at it. She wanted me to get violent. She'd gladly get knocked around for a turn in the driver's seat. I knew she was coming. Only a matter of time. I screamed the diatribe in my head that I would vomit in her face when she arrived. I felt nauseous at the coming exchange. I steeled myself for what was necessary. And it was necessary, this had to end.

When I opened the door the light streamed in through the sundress she had on and I could see she had worn nothing else. Her breasts and nipples made irresistible shapes under the thin cloth. She was damp from the walk over and the sweat on her chest made me feel weak. She hadn't spoke; watching my eyes take her in. She'd won. Again. Already again, she'd won without firing a shot. I felt sad at knowing my desire to fuck her right there would and had, taken any other fight from me. My libido hardly let the arguments creep in. They lay at the front door while she lead me away.

She was worthless. She knew that already. Couldn't do a damn thing right. How many times had he said it? She was an idiot. Unable to please him. No matter how hard she tried. It was her fault. She made him do it. If only she had made the mashed potatoes. She knew he liked mashed potatoes. She should have known. She paced the floors with blistered feet and blood stained sundress. He was furious when he left. This time for good he said. What would she do without him? She couldn't survive. What would others think? She drove him away. No other man would want her. So she tied that noose. Secured it to the ceiling fan. And when he returned home the next morning. He found her there. Hanging like an angel.

Staring at the ceiling, my eyes desperately try to keep up with the impossibly fast blades that cut through the air. The fan wins, and I give up, defeated.

Why would this matter, you may feel compelled to ask. Or perhaps not. I don't happen to be sure of anything these days. Well, all order in my life has been destroyed and crushed into microscopic little pieces that only serve to mock me and remind me of my failure. I was hoping to gain a piece back by focusing on something, but, as usual, I had many choices but I picked wrong.

I could have looked at that tiny spot on the wall that I think might be my blood or look at that dent in the cheap bed frame that I can hardly remember making. My head still pounds.

And all this started with my flippy, flowery sundress.

I was particularly fond of the garment, and I wore it often.

I was also particularly fond of a certain coffee shop, and I visited it often. Which, of course, was the wrong choice.

Oftentimes, there would be a certain man sitting in that certain coffee shop that I visited often. And I began to grow particularly fond of him.

Which, as you may have guessed, was the wrong choice.

He was an attractive man, but I was a simple, ordinary woman. My face did not stick out of the crowd and you could probably walk past me a thousand times and not recognize me if you had to.

I was aware of that.

And this fact made it especially special that the attractive man in the coffee shop that I visited often started to actually remember me and talk to me.

And I enjoyed it.

Which was the wrong choice.

We began to have little dates at the coffee shop that I visited often. Wrong, again.

One day, after we had grown particularly fond of each other, we went back to his house.

It was a very nice time, but it was the wrong choice.

The day after, I realized that I was very sore. And not just in the way that you may expect. It was an all over ache that went straight through my bones and into the depths of my very soul.

I look into the mirror and see bruises on my neck, my thighs, my breasts. I do not understand why they hurt so much.

While I'm examining the various marks on my skin, I feel a presence behind me and then rough pressure on my already tender skin.

"Please stop! You're hurting me!" I say, trying to escape his painful grasp.

"This was the wrong choice, darling," he whispers slowly. "And I believe you knew it."

I could have never seen him again after that night.

But I did.

And that, too, was the wrong choice.

The words you scream

With a bitter tone

Have left me broken

Insecure and unsure

And I no longer

Feel confident

In the sundress you bought me

When we first met

And yet

Every day continues

With me still here with you

And no matter how much

I fight my thoughts

And try to leave you

I always return

Because the blades of a ceiling fan

Always return

To the same position