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When you get home with the sun sailing the sky like a scar, you watch your Rubí. You father tells you that Bárbara Mori isn’t even Mexican-born. You pull out a real paper map to look for where Uruguay is. You realize that Mexico City is a place for actors and artists to go and find themselves and make a little cash.
When you get winter break from school, you binge watch your Rubí, the fog clinging to your apartment window like the flapping of wings. You make yourself Mexican hot chocolate and drink it from a blue cup and saucer like a woman. You paper cut yourself on the map and you suck your finger to make it stop.
The golden couple of Bollywood, Hrithik and Sussanne, had decided to end their 17 year long relationship (which includes four years of their courtship).
She decides to take up with his younger brother, a hipster artist named Gonzalo with curly hair who looks like he eats his lunch in the park with blackbirds pecking at his shoe.
You admire the way she fucks him because she gets on top and does it with autonomy.
She spouts from her heated swimming pool like a baptism in reverse.
You could put a magnifying mirror in the corner of the nook, the small circle of light shining on your bedroom wall.
The distant buzz from you son’s TV set says it’s 2008. You make your saint a pair of wings from pink cellophane, taping to one shoulder blade and then the other, your dirty fingers smudging them perfectly, and you catch your own dark eye hooked in the mirror as an offering.