Freeman's: Power

I thought, sometimes, yes, about sex. Though probably no more than I might have if staring out the window of a train or walking through the city, and these thoughts did not once correspond to the person behind the easel. The environment itself was sensual, any way you look at it; sunlight or lamp-heat or cool draughts on bare skin, as distinct as touch. Though in fact any touching was rare, granted by absurdly formal permission—May I please move your elbow? Do you mind if I tuck back that strand of hair? Models typically positioned themselves, aligning limbs to chalk or to masking-tape reference

to invest. Some seed money. Something I could show him. Do you think you’ve got a little to spare?”

Chun considered the question. There was the bank, and the bank account. “How much?”

The woman thought for a moment. “Well, it would have to be enough to make a start,” she said. “Probably more than a few thousand.”

A few thousand.

“You don’t have it?”

“We do,” she said. “It’s just that”—she felt embarrassed—”I would have to ask my husband.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “And of course, you wouldn’t need

more than the roughness of his cheek,

his long legs twining mine in sleep. Long nights

before my loom I sang some made-up song

and wove my threads into new shapes

he would have teased were odd.

“What are you making, a winding sheet?”

My life would be his to command again.

He’s back, disguised as an old man

to test my virtue, overtake the hall of men

authority, “when women grow up they get hair. When you grow up, you’ll get hair there too.”

“No sir …”

“Yes sir. Matter of fact, your mom has hair down there. A big ol’ spider bush.”

“No sir,” said Lola in a tone that was half denial, half question.

“It’s not something you do, it just happens. Your mom has all kinds of hair. Probably down to her knees. Like it or don’t.” The revelation was too much for Lola. She began to wail.

“All right, that does it,” said Chucho. “You girls get outta here. We gotta take these books and put ‘em someplace safe.”

“They’re not your books, you

The Nastybook Wars
JAIME CORTEZ
I

When you leave a grapefruit on a countertop for a couple of weeks, the membranes and fruity ligaments that hold together its pleasant rounded shape slowly weaken. Gravity insinuates itself, and the citrus’s bottom begins a relentless downward migration. The underside spreads and takes on the flatness of the counter, while the top thins out. That defeated grapefruit shape was precisely the shape of Primitivo Doblado’s head.