de Ángela M. Orozco Torres

 I take a bullet between my teeth. It is an ugly feeling. It makes my body cringe with each movement of my jaw. I feel each tooth clench the metal, as I hold it in different places around my mouth.

I spit it into the Mason jar once I’ve imprinted the experience in my memory. It makes a loud clinking sound, like ice being tossed into a glass. It’s early morning, and the rays of light are just starting to reach in through the windows. Dust floats slowly in the air, swirling.

Breakfast is the best meal, you say.

I nod, but don’t say a word. You reach for the box and shake it, the bullets rattling against the metal.

One of Beethoven’s symphonies is playing in the background. I don’t remember which one it is; they all sound the same to me, but you argue that confusing Beethoven’s music as one singular monster is like confusing Michael Jackson with Bruno Mars.

My fingernails tap to the rhythm, as if I’m playing the piano’s music. You grin at me all the while. I hope you can’t read my thoughts, because you’d kick my ass if you knew that I honestly prefer Bruno Mars to Michael Jackson.

I watch you put some whisky in your morning coffee. I arch an eyebrow, but otherwise do nothing.

You’ll kill yourself at this rate, I say.

You wink at me and drink. I shake my head, but smile all the same. Before I know it, you’re in my arms.

The act of hugging you in your natural state, sweaty and ripe from restless sleep, is the closest to you I ever need to be. The sensation of the miniscule groves of my fingers brushing against your soft, worn skin is the one thing I’ll never tire of.

I realize that this love is worth biting bullets for you, as long as we always have the reminder on our kitchen table every morning.

And that’s just fine.



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