Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

“I love you, Magos, but I don’t know if I can live with you, or if I want to. So it really doesn’t matter whether I love you or not. What do I do with it? What—this love doesn’t make me feel better.” I pulled his hair, hoping that if I hurt his head, his heart might hurt a little bit less.

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” “I hate talking to people I don’t know.” “It was me! I called.”

I kept my apartment full of trinkets that encased moments I believed were worth remembering, a physical accumulation of my life in order to make sure it wasn’t passing by unnoticed.

He seems to enjoy how much I eat. I ask for another. The man laughs. Slices more meat. More than he gives other customers. Thomas called them döner in Berlin. In Mexico City, taquitos al pastor. Wherever I am, it is comforting to find vertical meat to eat.