Concettina Died and Other Stories of the East Side

My Fins, posted February 15, 2009 at 12:36 PM

The sweetness of water, and the walking. Forgotten, my friends are forgetting. Sit alone at the bar, sneaking over-the-shoulder glances at the charmed and lucky-charmed, the gray t-shirt beauty mafia shifting their lithe bodies on their stools to better hold each other. They shift away.

Just the hint of a Spanish accent, like the last bubble in the Cava. And the dark lower-east-side night wrapping its arms around me and begging me to never leave. I wouldn't. I wouldn't know where to go anyway. The earth just keeps flying.

Swimming. Or drowning, Alex bent over holding herself, choking, and the baby flying away. We are encircling the land, we are rivers and tidal straits.

One word, then another. I haven't seen enough of the world to know, or to string words along a foreign coastline. But I'm spinning anyway, like a fairy tale. Just like a fairy tale.

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