The black cat slinks over to her and rubs her leg. Her toes curl and body petrifies at the sight of them, but out from the blackness come three cats. In the half-dark of the yard she looks from her bubble and spots six white orbs hovering in the shadows. She passes over a derelict yard where her legs are whipped by thistleweeds and the skeletons of dead roots crunch underfoot. The walk home is long, a darker trail ahead. She goes past the squat adobe huts like toads in the arroyo, and all around hang above the telephone wires. She kicks up dust with her feet, the earth clinging to her sneakers as she crosses the road, dashed by vibration lines along the spine. Yet aside hinges a rusty powerbox affixed to one telephone pole, a strider in the dark, pale gray skull framed by the fringes of white wirelights overhead. Ivies curl from terracotta ramparts and wood porches, old Spanish arches lank like simians black against the sunset. Here she trundles along, a dull shape, haggard and limpard, steely bones blocked side to side by red sunscorched clay.Īshamed as she is to admit, her parents’ lies in a richer part uptown. The neck of her guitar, mummified in its tall black case, stands tall and cocksure as a steel beam, posting up her back to the abominable blue light. Her luggage bumps and skids against the small rocks rucking to its wheels.
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