by Erica Moreno
The man I love snores very loudly. He is the same height as me with callused hands, smells of old spice and sweat, and has soft brown eyes which he rolls at me when I tell him I want to be a famous writer. "I don't understand writing," he told me one morning after I had read a four page story with no ending, stretched out on his bed. "It's all an expression, you shit, eat and sleep writing, you exhale words like cigarette smoke, writing is the extra shot of sugar at the bottom cup of your morning tea," my inner-Bukowski ringing strong. Opposites attract like a science experiment that hasn't lost it's fire. The man I love snores very loudly, but one night he stopped, so I shook his shoulders and asked, "Baby, are you dying?" and he snapped the elastic on my underwear and we both fell back asleep.
Erica Moreno is on the brink of a quarter life crisis. Her blog, though, is under control.