“Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 12, Jan 18th)
A fat, worn cardboard box sits in the center of the living room. A friend has carried it back from Chile for us, Tito tells me. Its tattered corners testify to the thousands of miles it’s traveled. Other than daily emails, Tito never receives anything from Chile, not at Christmastime, not on his birthday. This is Tito’s first package from home. He seems content just to looks at it. He tells me he was waiting for me.
“Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 11, Jan 13th)
A friend asks me if I love Tito enough. Then she hands me a white business card. Miriam L. Anderson, Esq., it says in type that looks lifted from a gravestone.
“If you’re worried about immigration, she’s worth every penny. And she’s the most honorable lawyer I know.”
I rub my hand over its embossed surface, unsure how to respond.
“Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 10, Jan 11th)
We shiver in the darkness of the garage that Tito has unlocked just for me. “Come here,” he calls. In the dim light I feel my way to his side. “Mira.”
“Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 9, Jan 6th)
It’s our secret by consensus, our neighborhood pothole. From the front seat of a car, nothing betrays how deeply it falls beneath the pavement. Up close it looks like nothing more than a shallow indentation. The sensible driver, rather than swerve into on-coming traffic, will opt to drive through it. “And pah! El hoyo gets him,” Tito tells me each night.
“Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 8, Jan 4th)
“La ciudad es mágica en esas horas, Rebecca.” The city is magical in those hours. I can see its spell on his tired face. Tito has found a second job, and it’s his first time working in Manhattan.
Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 7, 12/29)
“It’s a concepto among Latin peoples,” Tito tells me. He is trying to explain the mutterings between the guys who huddle together nightly a few doors down. Our little block once was quiet at night. Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, they appeared with their boasts, guffaws, groans, and rattling beer bottles. It doesn’t help that our bedroom window overlooks the street.
