as far as the eye could see there were marks in the road. a road that for no other reason than moving forward wound in a particularly dizzying fashion. the young gun had set out earlier that year to search for the better half of a coca cola she had had on a Sunday afternoon on her grandmothers porch in Valencia. it was that very same afternoon that her grandmother told her the story of how She and thus she came to be in America. where She came from there were no words for the things she wanted. everyone spoke with their hands and their spare change. made diagrams out of the dirt in the roads. it was there on a Sunday afternoon where She met her grandfather who was serving drinks at a local bar and wore the name Francis on his shirt. he poured her a tall drink of hibiscus and gin and told her (with his hands) that She was beautiful and that he loved her and that he would take her from this wasteland. as her grandmother poured the coca cola over ice She smiled when She spoke the word beautiful as if she were remembering an old friend.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I am multi-genre writer specializing in travel, ad-copy, and nonfiction prose. A recent graduate with my MFA I am spending my new found time rambling around the world, practicing yoga, and searching for the best salad ever. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair