Silver Nitrate

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

moratorium.”

mordant.

“The film was shot with silver nitrate stock because silver is a powerful conduit for spells.”

The ingredients of film—nitric acid, methyl alcohol, cotton liners—were the same as those for explosives. Burnt offerings for an invisible god, that’s what nitrate was.

Part of their unspoken agreement, he thought, was that Montserrat must always remain the same. She must be a constant in his life, his true north. There was a monstrous selfishness to this attitude. He understood this the same way he realized he was sometimes annoyingly childish in his demands and affection. But it was the only way he truly knew how to love someone.

garrulous.

“Montserrat, let’s talk about us. I am willing to alleviate your financial woes and provide you with the other trinkets you desire, including Tristán. The love of your life, am I correct?” “I can get a raise and go on dates on my own, asshole,” she said, unable to maintain a composed tone against the mockery of his voice. His amused laughter reverberated around them. “You’re trying to use anger as your shield. If you won’t be afraid, then you’ll be furious and insolent. It’s a cheap trick.” “It’s from your book,” she replied. “I know. That is why I’m partial to it.”

He huffed, bruised by her refusal. He hadn’t expected her to swoon, but this felt like a military siege; he’d have to fight tooth and nail for her. But it only emboldened him, made him realize he’d have to dig deep, and he wouldn’t be able to do things in halves. “Call me immature then, because it sounds reasonable to me,” he said, spreading his arms. “It’s twenty years of foreplay, Momo. Do you want to wait a few more decades until I can’t masticate my own food? ’Cause I’ll love you until then and feed you pureed prunes, but it would be a shame to start living together at eighty-nine and die of a heart attack the first time we have sex.” “That is the most disgusting declaration I’ve ever heard,” she said flatly, and then she couldn’t help it, she laughed. Tristán laughed, too, and now he felt stupid, but he supposed that was fine. It was okay to be stupid when it came to Montserrat. “It is, isn’t it?” he said.