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About Mayaguez

Walk slow, talk soft. That’s my trick. They smell fear. Like dogs. Or desperation. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’. *Why’m I even here?* Then I spot her. Leanin’ on a lamppost. Skirt’s too short. Eyes like Therese’s—searchin’. “You don’t know me,” she’d say. Like in the movie. But I see her. I always do.

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But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs into me. I drop my bread! I’m like, “Nooooo!” It’s like slow motion. I’m ready to cry. But the kid’s all, “Sorry, mister!” and runs off. I’m standing there, bread on the ground, and I’m like, “Great, just great.”

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