You don’t hear any hum of life anymore. Cement bricks or remnants of it replaced TV noises, dicing up tomatoes to prepare dinner or just the whir of city life. We pass through with only the sound of wheels crunching stones. Then we enter a segment of carenderias, of people eating fried chicken and puso sans chairs. I don’t wear my glasses. I don’t want to lose my ability to navigate the world just because everything becomes a blur of white and yellow light. The pandemic-induced work-from-home hastened eye aging. Now, my pair regularly turns an average night into a bokeh world without app filters involved.
At the first hour of work, I shift uncomfortably. The shirt sleeves fold beneath jacket sleeves and layers of clothing and selves aren’t fully slotted to the right curves and hooks yet.
the girl who thinks an awful lot 