I wrote this. Check it.
It was a lazy lovemaking rain, warm and sticky, and good for mangos, but mangos didn’t grow here. Salome dozed in bed and alternated between two dreams—one where a man used watercolors to paint flowers on her bare skin, and another where a young version of herself waited with a machete outside her door.
She wanted to distance herself from that young version of herself. That girl, nicknamed Sal, was never asked on a date, never asked to dance. Sal had a large backside and an ugly face. She didn’t know who her father was because her mother had been so open with her love. Sal’s mother visited bars and looked for American men. She wore high heels and animal prints, even when they revealed her cellulite.
She was no longer Sal. She used her full name since entering the United States. She adopted a lazy gaze so…
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