My aunt spoke to me quietly, in a confused and troubled tone, on the landing of the stairwell in my grandmother’s house, which was inexplicably crowded.
__I know you’re sad and you have problems and things, she said, but please do not bring them to Twitter.
__A tall, thin creature with a human head and the body of an iguana walked slowly past us up the stairs.
__My aunt waited until the iguana man was out of earshot then whispered, It’s just, then paused. Nevermind, she said, visibly struggling to hold back tears.
__I noticed paintings on the walls behind her. They looked antique, but had shiny new price tags on them.
__Running, she said. Or basketball? What about basketball? You used to love playing basketball, she said.
At Jim and Aaron’s, Jim mentioned Eva had been over.
__When? I said.
__We watched a movie, Jim said, smiling.
I walked around my bedroom thinking.
What did she say about me? I asked Aaron, outside the coffee shop.
__Aaron evaporated. A gigantic face formed in the clouds.
__My coffee turned to yerba mate, which delighted me.
I walked around the city, not recognizing anything.
Why didn’t you tell me? I said to Eva in a room.
__He was showing me his studio, she said.
__And what was Jim doing there, I said. Or—
__I don’t— Eva said.
__What is Jim working on? I said.
Jordan Castro is the author of two poetry books. He is the managing editor of New York Tyrant.