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.
"Only six?"
She takes my sandwich.
Janey Smith
How The Universe Got Its Spots: Diary of a Finite Time in a Finite Space
Janna Levin