Alvin Park lives and writes in San Diego.
His work has been featured in The Rumpus,
the Alice Blue Review, and the Mojave River
Review. He has a long way to go.
11. This is your last chance. You can’t make things right.
You know she’ll be gone by morning, that she’ll leave a
note that only says, Don’t call me for a while. You know
she’ll take almost none of your shared things—the glass
vase, the record player, the books, the thrift store quilt—
because it’s the type of thing you’d get mad about.
12. But you try anyway.
13. Bake in the oven until you feel your bones crack, until
your knees bend the wrong way, until your skin rises and
falls, not unlike breathing.
14. When you finish, your apartment will be empty. You
already feel like you’re forgetting her, until one day you
walk by the bookstore and catch a scent that reminds you
of your second date, the Italian place, the wine stains on
your lips, the first time you saw each other naked.
15. Her smell wafts around your home, laces through the
walls.
16. Wrap yourself in muslin cloth and store somewhere
cool and dark. Serve when ready.
Illustrator
Mirjam Schrei is a 16-year-old art student
from Austria, who started to draw at the age
of four. Mirjam has been attending an art
school in Graz for the past two years.