Fiction

I used to be embarrassed by the faded and slightly sticky blue linoleum. / By that accidental smell made by the neighboring bottles of spices and sauces / that shouldn’t be combined. / By the overly general name: ASIA MART. / They’re more welcoming now.

I recognise these glassy dull eyeballs. They used to be mine.

Despite Mum’s charisma on show, it rarely ever made its way home. Growing up, she was unreadable.

I will take you home, bug. I will put a pot of water on the stove. I think you will feel fear and suffering, but your body will not be broken until after you die. According to our people, that makes you special.

When I met Cara, I was at the bar and lounge on Thursday night, choking on a chunk of grilled cheese sandwich. Cara ran up behind me and performed the Heimlich maneuver, as I vomited on her purse, cheese staining the stitching on the red leather. “You saved me,” I said, catching my breath.

There are two veterans in the family. Father, who wasn’t recognized as one, and my brother, who was born here and served in the U.S. military and is therefore formally recognized as one. The officially recognized veteran receives the benefits of the institution, and he understands that privilege he holds over the unrecognized.