San Antonio, 2021 by Natalia B. Álvarez

I’m in the back of an Uber on a loop road at night that I have never seen before. I see the driver’s eyebrows in the rearview mirror and try to keep up a nonchalant attitude that won’t give me away. I look longingly out every window.

The driver gestures toward his window. “You see out there?” It’s too dark to see anything in particular, but I nod anyway. He becomes grave with unnatural quickness. “Do not ever go there.”

“Oh, really?” I say, still trying not to draw attention to myself. I wonder how much of my

personal information he can see on his end of the app.

The driver is adamant. According to him, the people from the other side of the highway

cannot be trusted. They rob. They menace. They do drugs. They’re criminals. They’re rapists.

“Though some, I’m sure, are good people.” he assures me.

I let out a soft, “Interesting,” and look back at the rearview mirror. His waxing gibbous

eyes are clipping off of his face, obstructing his ears. His gray hair becomes a deep brown, then gray again. I spend the next 12 minutes looking at my hands in my lap, ashamed and afraid.

Unseen by me, and unnoticed by the driver, in the referenced neighborhood the houses’ downspouts crunch up like submarines at the ocean floor, all at once. They will uncrunch after we leave the area.

---

I’m in the bathroom of a hostel, getting ready for the day. I sweat into my comb as I pull

the sleep from my hair. Something in me just does not want to leave the building today. I need to summon the courage to go outside. I need to summon the courage to go outside.

---

There’s a dimly lit chapel permeated yellow in Mission Concepción. I’m there on a self-

guided tour with my boyfriend. Apart from us, a family of five or six are being given a tour by a guide, and the guide is explaining the history of the chapel. I stand somewhat behind them and listen in, following his words, imagining the same walls in another century, still rough yet not worn. I imagine the captives in the pews, a younger one acting as altar boy. Maybe he gets more food if he agrees to the role.

And the tour guide is looking at me, speaking to me. He’s asking me if he wants him to

switch to English. His eyes are big like the Uber driver’s. I sense electricity cracking in his

throat, the same way one senses a far-off thunderstorm or rocket launch. A faint ringing falls

from the empty belfries. I tell him no. He does anyway.

---

Se lo juro que les entiendo bien. Les suplico creerme que sí yo estaba allí antes.

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Never have I felt more poorly welded together. The oil and water within me cannot

pretend to be married any longer under the gaze of purity. I ask the convenience store cashier for a water bottle and she tells me I shouldn’t exist. The split city splits me. My lie of unity, of oneness, collapses and I limp, shredded, anywhere else.

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Natalia B. Álvarez (she/her) is a writer from Maryland in her mid-20s. She enjoys political education, cooking, resting in the sunlight, and spending time with her partner. She identifies as Puerto Rican, Chicana, Choctaw, bisexual, and a transgender woman.

Insta: @starbits140