by Kerrin Piche Serna
You're leaning against the inside of the door of the Chevy on a spot with no rust, a scratchy Indian blanket beneath you. He is driving too fast on the dirt road, which is bumpy with a flair for comedy. He spots a black person up ahead, walking in the dust with his head down, and he guffaws, "Lookit that nigger." He turns his head and flicks his blackened tongue into the gap where two teeth lived once, and an arc of wet, dark evil lands with a sickening plunk into the pot on the seat between you, splashing you a little. His face softens; his hand sweeps the black spittle from your leg. "Sorry," he says, and he means it.
Kerrin Piche Serna's short fiction has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the Portland Review. She is the author of Disguises.