I meet my grandmother every Sunday on the beach. There are lots of people there, mostly tourists. I come between everyone, the tourists, no one cares, really. Tourists move out of my way. I come between this one boy, who's cute, drunk. He's not really interested in me, though, stares at the pier floor. I do something to my face with make up, very 80s, everyone ignores me.
My grandmother waves, "Over here."
I get hungry, know my grandmother will hold me.
I support this fish sandwich with both hands, open my mouth, look at my grandmother looking at me.
My grandmother says, "Saigon."
I think about Saigon, my grandmother. I think that somehow I wanted the war to come out different. We watch a strong man on the beach flex his muscles. My grandmother says she hasn't had sex in six years.
She takes my sandwich.
How The Universe Got Its Spots: Diary of a Finite Time in a Finite Space