Science Fiction & Fantasy
by Sarah Pauling
You kissed her while Mom’s broken-down dishwasher roared from the next room over. Lucia had said it would be romantic: You, her, and a pitcher of tinto de verano whipped up from your brother’s old wine stash and a flat Sprite from the back of the fridge. Like it was still springtime. Like you were still at the fair in Sevilla, sketching each other dancing.
What would be
really romantic, you told her, would be making out on a sofa that didn’t have a dubious history re: cat vomit. A sofa you could call your own, down Avenida Manolete, where the apartments were spaced farther apart and the mall theater didn’t play ads before American movies.