Sunday
The mosque’s never-ending cry seeps through the walls of every house. Even mine, where the pastor lives.
It’s five. Morning. My blistered feet are bare – heels can’t wake the kids.
I giggle.
Shh…
One more cigarette? The screen door slams.
DAMMIT!
The lock on the blue metal gate doesn’t seem so loud anymore.
Dark streets barely lit twist under headlights. We’re drunk and chilly because of the dried salt on our bodies – Cabo love…
The sun comes up. You need to go. Our cigarettes are ashes and they’re done with their morning prayers.
It’s time to sleep.
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