A couple weeks ago my mother told me that Junot Diaz, THE Junot Diaz, resides in a quiet neighborhood behind the spin studio I go to in Cambridge. I don’t know how she knows this, or how the person who told her knows this. But, I’m taking said person as a credible source (because This Is How You Lose Her).
A few of my favorites from This Is How You Lose Her:
That’s the most we can hope for. Nothing thrown, nothing said that we might remember for years. You watch me while you put a brush through your hair. Each strand that breaks is as long as my arm. You don’t want to let go, but don’t want to get hurt either. It’s not a great place to be but what can I tell you?
We all do shit like this, stuff that’s no good for you. You do it and there’s no feeling positive about it afterwards. When Cut puts his salsa on the next morning, I wake up, alone, the blood doing jumping jacks in my head. I see that she’s searched my pockets, left them hanging out of my pants like tongues. She didn’t even bother to push the fuckers back in.
I played Andres Jimenez for her – you know, Yo quiero que mi Borinquen sea libre y soberana – and then we drank a pot of café. El Pico, I told her. Nothing but the best. We didn’t have much to talk about. She was depressed and tired and I had the worst gas of my life. Twice I had to excuse myself. Continue reading “Drown by Junot Diaz”