Page 9 - My FlipBook

D i an e T e r r an a

“Are you mocking me? You know English isn’t my first
language.”
“Or are there firm facts? Like pasta? Facts that are al dente?
Do you know how that translates? ‘To the tooth.’ So, facts you
can bite into. Delicious facts.”
He rolled on top of me, not touching, just holding himself
up like he was doing a push-up. Then he kissed me. I tasted

black licorice. “Uskut,” he said before he rolled away.
“What?”
“That means shut up.”
“That’s harsh. Is it less offensive in Arabic?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a good thing you’re a star.”
“I’m not a star—I’m made of stars. We all are. Every atom

in me and every atom in you and every atom in everything on
earth, including the earth, is from a star that died.”
“So we’re all just recycled stars.”
“You make it sound a little...” He searched for the word.
“Prosaic?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“The opposite of poetic.”
“Exactly.”
“Not at all. You know I’m a recycling freak and that no one

loves recycling more than I do. The act of recycling,” I added,
“is a poem.”
“What kind of poem?”
He’d called my bluff, and I had to think fast. I am always
saying things that I don’t really mean, or, at least, I don’t know

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