Halsey Street

by Naima Coster

The cherry filling was an artificial red; it was gooey and false and delicious.

It was as if she were asleep with her eyes open.

She had been meticulous over the years about sticking only to what she had mastered—drinks, sex, runs, object studies—so that she wouldn’t have to face her own inadequacy.

This is what it meant to be Dominican—to be bound for life one moment, and the next, left for dead on the road.

“You know, no one ever believes old men when we say how good our lives were then. But they believe us when we say how bad our lives are now.”

He seemed to be learning when to keep himself away, when to circle her perimeter until there was a sign to come back in.