once theyâd left, a little smile would spread across her face.
Since then sheâs realized that she actually enjoys affirming things, and making them up even more so. Itâs just repeating the same thing over and over that seems unbearably sad to her.
âIâm a blue cheese,â she affirms. âIâm a blugheese.â
âThird time lucky,â she affirms. âYou have to lure the cravings with details.â
The flavor. The flavor was so rich it would go straight to her brain, like a chili, though not spicy. She liked the texture, like butter but better, slower in the mouth, with more lumps, smooth and explosive. She pictures the cheese for so long it starts to repulse her. Then she goes out to the yard, takes a deep breath, leans against the water tank and looks up to the sky.
âGo-back-to-your-room!â some part of her drawls.
Where was he now? In the restaurant, maybe, or holding Momâs hands: âDonât-bite-your-nails-Mother.â
She breathes how they showed her to. She looks up to the sky how they showed her to. Itâs a stubborn dark gray color: itâs never fully night in the mews. Years ago, Marina invented the word graycholy. It might be the first color she ever invented: a bit gray, a bit melancholy. And yet, that wasnât the shade of a fake night like this, but rather of a foggy afternoon in Xalapa, one of thousands. This big cityâs sky is something else, with its blanket of electric light emitting a sort of sonic-luminous fusion: a low, droning âbrrrrrrâ. Whatâs it called, then? Darktric, maybe. Is it ever really night in Mexico City? Marina never goes far enough out of her comfort zone to be able to confirm such a thing. Maybe if you go up one of those skyscrapers they say exist in the business district you can escape the darktric, leave it all below, look up to the black sky again and see the darkness as it was meant to be: without the buzz, and interrupted only by stars. Marina lights a cigarette and holds it up as a satellite. There are a few loose butts next to an ashtray on the window ledge, no doubt left there by Chihuahua who likes to stand alone out in the yard from time to time, to make himself seem interesting. Marina loses her appetite when she smokes, and the truth is that thatâs both why she started and why she quit. And now sheâs waiting for it to reappear, the hunger, and she hasnât mentioned to the doctors that sheâs smoking again. The therapist swears her appetite will come back.
âMarina, your body knows ,â he tells her.
But what Marina thinks is that Mr. Therapist doesnât know shit. She suspects that he would have liked to be a surgeon but could never tell his blood cells from his blood clots. She suspects he had to throw in the towel, the kudos, and all the other more pressing issues they take care of elsewhere in the hospital. She suspects he had to resign himself to Floor 8, Psychiatry: Sudokus for the soul.
*
A few raindrops fall on the water tank. The wet black gleams: weckbleam. When she first rented Bitter last summer, it rained every afternoon, even inside the house, and she dashed around here and there catching the drips in pans and thinking to herself cheerfully, âWasnât Mexico City supposed to be dry? Wasnât Mexico City really, really dry?â Back then she had no more to her name than her nineteen years and some waitressing savings. The money she gets now â the fat, guilt-ridden check her father sends her â didnât exist during those first months. She stored her things in a makeshift closet built out of bricks and boards, which she painted gold in a burst of enthusiasm. (Goldasm.) She drank out of yogurt pots. She bought a mattress and a single pillow. These days she looks at the house and feels suffocated by all the stuff sheâs collected. She sees the money from the restaurant in everything â the restaurant and the
Since then sheâs realized that she actually enjoys affirming things, and making them up even more so. Itâs just repeating the same thing over and over that seems unbearably sad to her.
âIâm a blue cheese,â she affirms. âIâm a blugheese.â
âThird time lucky,â she affirms. âYou have to lure the cravings with details.â
The flavor. The flavor was so rich it would go straight to her brain, like a chili, though not spicy. She liked the texture, like butter but better, slower in the mouth, with more lumps, smooth and explosive. She pictures the cheese for so long it starts to repulse her. Then she goes out to the yard, takes a deep breath, leans against the water tank and looks up to the sky.
âGo-back-to-your-room!â some part of her drawls.
Where was he now? In the restaurant, maybe, or holding Momâs hands: âDonât-bite-your-nails-Mother.â
She breathes how they showed her to. She looks up to the sky how they showed her to. Itâs a stubborn dark gray color: itâs never fully night in the mews. Years ago, Marina invented the word graycholy. It might be the first color she ever invented: a bit gray, a bit melancholy. And yet, that wasnât the shade of a fake night like this, but rather of a foggy afternoon in Xalapa, one of thousands. This big cityâs sky is something else, with its blanket of electric light emitting a sort of sonic-luminous fusion: a low, droning âbrrrrrrâ. Whatâs it called, then? Darktric, maybe. Is it ever really night in Mexico City? Marina never goes far enough out of her comfort zone to be able to confirm such a thing. Maybe if you go up one of those skyscrapers they say exist in the business district you can escape the darktric, leave it all below, look up to the black sky again and see the darkness as it was meant to be: without the buzz, and interrupted only by stars. Marina lights a cigarette and holds it up as a satellite. There are a few loose butts next to an ashtray on the window ledge, no doubt left there by Chihuahua who likes to stand alone out in the yard from time to time, to make himself seem interesting. Marina loses her appetite when she smokes, and the truth is that thatâs both why she started and why she quit. And now sheâs waiting for it to reappear, the hunger, and she hasnât mentioned to the doctors that sheâs smoking again. The therapist swears her appetite will come back.
âMarina, your body knows ,â he tells her.
But what Marina thinks is that Mr. Therapist doesnât know shit. She suspects that he would have liked to be a surgeon but could never tell his blood cells from his blood clots. She suspects he had to throw in the towel, the kudos, and all the other more pressing issues they take care of elsewhere in the hospital. She suspects he had to resign himself to Floor 8, Psychiatry: Sudokus for the soul.
*
A few raindrops fall on the water tank. The wet black gleams: weckbleam. When she first rented Bitter last summer, it rained every afternoon, even inside the house, and she dashed around here and there catching the drips in pans and thinking to herself cheerfully, âWasnât Mexico City supposed to be dry? Wasnât Mexico City really, really dry?â Back then she had no more to her name than her nineteen years and some waitressing savings. The money she gets now â the fat, guilt-ridden check her father sends her â didnât exist during those first months. She stored her things in a makeshift closet built out of bricks and boards, which she painted gold in a burst of enthusiasm. (Goldasm.) She drank out of yogurt pots. She bought a mattress and a single pillow. These days she looks at the house and feels suffocated by all the stuff sheâs collected. She sees the money from the restaurant in everything â the restaurant and the
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