Spitball Army

Each morning the old man tells me, “My daughter will be 50 in March. She lives with us…long story, let’s just call it a stroke.”

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Hardly vigilant, the lifeguard sang hymns to himself, loudly, out-of-tune, hands flailing. Poolside, I waited for him to levitate.

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Hoy en día se me dijo, en Inglés, que mi nivel de empleo sería bastante superior si hablaba español con fluidez.

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He’d agreed to sell the artwork to a chum for $400, but after a museum proposed 450, he deemed the relationship worth the balance.

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She caught his eye, arriving after the last song, dejected. He, with guitar, sat down on the lip of the stage and sang one to her.

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The mayo in the jar was runny: he suspected his visiting mother who, in her thrift, would add water to near-empty shampoo bottles.

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The $10.90 debt hung on for months, the rain turned their dusty Oklahoma town to mud, but the train always came at the right time.

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The range flashed “F2;” flames burst out the oven door. Under the layer of black molten sugar was a perfect sweet potato casserole.

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We hadn’t eaten Granny’s empanadas in decades, but this year I made them. Each bite of sugary refried beans tasted of childhood.

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At the holiday buffet, “one-trip-to-the-table” Gary inserts turkey slivers inside a lemon pie wedge and jalapeño slices atop that.

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