Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

Her son was alive and now he isn’t. No thunder, no angels weeping, no cloaked Death, no grace; just his silent body, unbreathing, and the blunt realization that this is it.

one whimpering man is no audience.

One believes the stupidest things in grief.

My fire was embers waiting to be fanned, while his was already dying.

Maybe she was thinking, I want to be like her. Brave. Independent. Drinking by herself, getting a tuna tostada, who cares if she’s alone. In fact, better alone!

I had expected Peter and me to end. Maybe that’s why it was so good between us. I had no other motive to be with him than to enjoy him. Whatever irked me about him, whatever his faults, were easily overlooked since I knew they weren’t really mine to deal with. I was temporary. Soon, he’d leave.