The Dangers of Smoking in Bed

by Mariana Enríquez

Sometimes I think the crazies aren’t people, they’re not real. They’re like incarnations of the city’s madness, like escape valves. If they weren’t here, we’d all kill each other or die of stress,

she just wanted that vaguely distant, chemically induced state that disconnected her but still let her live a little. Less and less, but enough.

people can smell desperation, and she reeked.

All my willpower had evaporated that summer, and I couldn’t manage to meet goals as simple as sleeping at night and eating at least twice a day.

and the astonishing web on her arms that bore witness to their butchering.

Sometimes she even brought a book to the bar, and that attracted some glances, but no one had ever bothered to ask what she was reading. With a book, she could tune out the conversations of the other office workers, which didn’t interest her at all.

Because nothing bad ever happened to goddesses, not even when they were so sad and streetwise.

It was the first time Graciela had seen a moribund person walking, a person whose mind didn’t register the death of the body. She’d been shocked.

“Don’t spend too much time online, it’ll drive you crazy.