A while ago, I caught myself crying in Frida Kahlo's bedroom mirror, waiting for her to burst from the sky and correct the mistakes of my face with peach paint. Oh, how she'll come down - heavy, so heavy, to remind me that I remain unmarried to my husband. We will kiss one another and discuss the horrors of love. Lapis lazuli on the dome of the cathedral. Hard as Mayan jade. Guilty as Aztec Red. I heard a girl slam her fists against the bathroom wall, as I sat fanning smoke towards an open window. The peeling pink of my breast burning fast.

I can't follow the pretty Honduran girl from bar to bar. She just wants to drink. She may also want to dance.

And who could blame her? I cannot deny that my speech is un-Spanish. Oh but what I wouldn't give to live a day in her life ...

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