moment to moment

Knocking my legs together in time with the distant lull of the rush hour traffic, I impatiently waited on the porch step for dinner. It was hot out. The type of hot that clings to your skin, an uncomfortable stickiness that molds your shirt to your back and makes the hair on your neck limp with sweat. Drooling, I could almost taste the sweet pork as my mom nudged the screen door with her foot, holding two steaming tamales. She smiled, scooting next to me. “Are you hungry?” Her Spanish was silky, warm. We sat, shoulder to shoulder, as we watched the sun cast the neighborhood in a mellow glow.

It was a dimly lit room, a familiar one. Most of the space was filled with round tables and tacky carpeting with little triangles that you could just make out in the soft candlelight. In the front was a low stage, and a wide glossy floor, perfect for dancing and shoe-stomping. Red lanterns hung from the rafters, casting odd shadows against the tanned faces of little boys and girls. Everything felt wrong–– the silk dress that clung just a little too tightly to my neck, the burn at the back of my throat from the heavily fragranced tea, the forced nod to the waiters who would speak to me in Mandarin. Surrounded by the celebration of my own culture, I never felt so desperately uncomfortable.

Fuck yes, Max howled, shoving his head out the sunroof as we barreled down Lake Shore Drive. Humid air pressed heavy against our chests, skin slicked against the worn leather of the carseats. We raced towards the lights of the skyline, delirious with the temporary promises of summer and the naive infiniteness of being sixteen.

These were the moments where I felt the happiest, where I felt so small, so insignificantly significant. I felt whole, felt tethered to my world because I was living it. For a moment, I am everything and nothing.

Julian was uncontrollably laughing, thumping the steering wheel in time to the heavy bass that floated from the speakers. I stretched my hand out the window, wind licking my fingertips. Buildings ran like watercolor, blurring into little boxes of bedroom windows I’d never see and people I’d never meet.

I was insanely, drunkenly, happy. I never wanted this to end–– it was too good. I was afraid to blink because I might miss it–– this fleeting moment of happiness that I’ve already forgotten.

Every morning before school, without fail, my mom would make me a hard-boiled egg. You need protein, she would say, despite my protests. She’d lean against the doorframe, holding me hostage until she was sure I cleared my plate. It’s not that I disliked eggs–– they were versatile. It was the yolk–– that yellow, dry crumbly bit surrounded by the better white part. I hated the way it got stuck in my teeth only to be painstakingly scraped out by the tip of my tongue. I hated the way it lingered in my mouth, and no matter how much I brushed it still coated the back of my throat. Like the inescapable stench that it leaves behind in your mouth, I couldn’t escape the yellow that defined me. Carefully separating the yolk every time, I choked on those egg whites.