Traveling with you is being hungry, always. We prowl the sites like jackals, waiting for our chance to jump. Hot, sugary churros chased down by beer after beer at the ancient bar behind the new colonialist temple, and the ruins of the older Aztec one where we ducked in to escape the rain and warm our July-cooled bones, and stayed until we were as dry and comfortable as the dogs we are, our conversation the only fire, and the music, and the only other people in the place another couple, she with heavy, tightly constrained hips and red, plum-red, hair.

“My boyfriend shows up at my apartment with his face made up like a hideous monster. It’s not Halloween, but he’s an amateur actor, so I’m more surprised than shocked.”

“A week after Mom leaves, Dad tells us to stop asking about her. A postcard arrives. We recognize Mom’s handwriting. Dad snatches it away.”