OCR Text |
Show Roscoe coming home. Hitchhiking back to Jemez from Triangle Liquors, my boots crunching on frozen roadside dirt through San Ysidro, adobes with doors locked, lights out, cold bitch of a January night. Bruised hands in coat pockets pricked by bits of straw, left hand absently peeling the label off a bottle: La Copita White Port 19% alcohol by volume. Moon, round and full, can almost feel the weight like a heavy breast, nested in the crook of my arm in some smoky injun bar before the fight. Hey Moon! Come on down. Your husband's gone for the night. How about a kiss, dammit, little dance to the jukebox. Moon, you got a pickup? How about a ride - I'm freezin' my ass. |