The Man from Michoacan

She sat at the table chain smoking, listening to him breathe. Watching his smooth brown body rise and fall. She stayed there a long time, calculating how they had arrived at this moment.
It was hot. The Sonoran summer sliding in sideways. So hot, so they went to Saguaro Lake and discussed the possibility that the moon may not be altogether full. They could both clearly see, the right hand corner. They sat on sloping rocks and dipped their toes in the water. On the dock ,they lie flush counting the stars.
The man from Michoacan said that he is happy hunting iguanas and armadillo, “but what would you change” he looked to the bright white moon and softly said, “nothing” she wanted to go to Michoacan that instant She wanted to be content to listen to the wind and watch the sunset and eat beans and husk corn. If all she ever had to do were eat, sleep, shoot tequila and fuck the man from Michaocan she would begin the fourty hour journey this moonlit night.
He is father to three daughters. One he calls Lucy. She imagines that he is warm and loving with them. A good teacher, gentle disciplinarian. She wonders if he is gentle with his wife?
A faux crystal goblet, sealed and made dagger sharp at the end hung dangerously low over the striped tweed couch matted in patches of human debris.. A black and white TV held together by duct tape and rabbit ears was nestled deep inside a shadow box inside a series of shadow boxes stacked against the mildewed wall.

The kitchenette was dismal, a stack of plastic drinking cups sagged next to an ice bucket chipped and peeling. The formica counters had been melted here and there with a combination of what might have been carelessness,cigarette butts or crack pipes. The table reminded her of the old station wagons with paneled sides. Two dining chairs upholstered in orange and gold naugahyde stood erect despite their weary lives. He cooks for her, this Man from Michocoan, he makes thick potato tostados, soft and crunchy fish tacos salsa so hot she can’t breathe. He pours juice made from fresh strawberries and sugar down her throat and smiles.

“We want different things”, she says sweetly, wondering silently if “things” will ever get her any further than this eighty four dollar room. He nods politely.

He’s a cowboy. This Man from Michoacan. Complete with hat, belt and alligator boots in shades of Crème Brule.
She didn’t look up when he tipped his hat, nobody said goodbye.

The Man from Michoacan


Joined January 2008

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