LatinosUSA

Darla she dropped out of school and moved to the coast. It’s not a crime to want to be happy, she would say. She worked as a docent and got into crafts and sold them at a gift store in a quaint fishing town. Anything washed up on the shore was fair game. Ya. That was how we met. I had tired of the songs on my broken heart playlist. I tired of typing into search engines so I ventured out, enrolling in a school of fish across the sea. My spectacled friend, the wiccan, told me i wont tell you this wont hurt as she extracted the thorn from my heart to let the bad blood. I paid her with kindness and macaroons. Darla and I did the finishing touches in her kitchen with a limpia con huevo. I peered into the glass afterward and tapped at the black bits – like coal dust – around the yolk. We drank bloody marys on a sand dune while she carved a stone pelican. My friends would watch helplessly as I drifted spellbound through life in the glow of serial love. They tired of me and my sad songs and broken heart playlist. Darla sanded the intricate throat of the bird and listened to me carry on about all the crap going on in the world and my loneliness and the lessons one had to endure by the wrath of the gods. I expected her apathy to kick in any moment and throw me back to the sea. It’s not a crime to fall in love, she said.