The Incendiaries

by R.O. Kwon

Each fucking dish you’ll purchase in America, if it’s French, Thai, top-flight, it’s all made by diligent-as-hell illegals. Mexicans. You’ve got a Colombian, maybe a Dominican. That’s it. But people don’t want you to talk like this. They like you to choke up while you tell them about childhood frolics with the Italian grandma who rolled out tortellini dough. So, that’s what I am, I’m Italian American. If anyone asks, I piss Sicilian sunlight.

I’m afraid being alone isn’t a skill. It’s a disposition.

I thought that, disliking what I’d done, he hoped to avoid looking at me. I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure I wanted the instruction; it felt artificial, like being taught to breathe. But then, he put his hands down, and I saw he was crying. He asked what I thought while I hit the keys. I told him that sound was trapped in the piano. I had to let it out.