Pickled chilis- there were enough of them there to burn down a Midwesterner’s family tree to its very roots. No spice in those people. None at all. Angelina moved on past the pickled mangos and more pickled chilis to the plain old chili powder. Product of India.

Once upon a time, Angelina had been from India, too.

Martin pats worrisomely at his forehead, shining with sweat in the bright dancing hall lights. His handkerchief comes away greasy and moist, and he tucks it back into its pocket, mortified despite the fact that this is not at all unusual for him anymore. In the privacy of his own home he dries his bald head without a second thought to propriety. In the dance hall, however, he is one of many, many, uncomfortable bachelors trying to appeal to a lady—any lady.

I hunched over in the white ash, my long, thin tail twitching behind me. My knobby fingers dug through the dust, searching at the roots of a twisted plant. The wind brought the scent of more burning, and a quick glance across the mountain showed that the men were herding flame again. When I was young, I had feared the fire and the humans who controlled it, but having only narrowly avoided the ravages of a natural bushfire, I had learned a healthy appreciation for this strange activity. Besides keeping the mountain from burning up in one fell swoop, their fires created a steady and predictable supply of my favorite treat:

Burnt protea flowers.

The day her Marcello entered the hospital, she began to die as well. There was paperwork to be corrected, and their names were moved to separate sheets. Deceased. Their medical charts were sorted apart, as were the mortgage payments, their phone bills, and the car insurance.

The old man stared torpidly into the distance, his head held at an odd angle. Perhaps not really held so much as left there to hang. He didn’t appear to have the strength to hold it up. His body and face were sunken; the emaciation of the old, and his head could hold on to only a few stray hairs, whispy like cirrus clouds. Dolefully he stared, unmoved from where he had been abandoned by the nurse in his wheelchair.

Baby, they’re crooning. They’re crooning to me over the AM radio with its static coming in like waves in this hot, humid air. I’m leaning in my window, just taking it in as the heat takes the life outta me. I’m sweating but I’m cool, cuz I got crooners, singing it like sugar.

The city of hushed voices.

Where the wooshing of cars driving between the great columns of steel and glass buildings is all that’s heard on the street. Where all you see when you look into buildings, and cars, and eyes, is the reflection of the brighter lights outside. Where people walk by with their heads down; they never meet each other’s gazes. They’re too afraid to.

The children mumble sleepily; snoozily. She’s just put them down, in the middle of the afternoon, but the heavy curtains make the rooms dark and heavy. Both doorways face each other across the hallway, each close with the smells of small children. She, Karen, can see into the boys’ room from here. It’s thick and warm, set to the rhythm of air escaping and filling soft pink lips.