Adrianna Vasquez

There is always a crack in everything.

The air was heavy this July. The neighborhood felt as if it were in slow motion. Rosa’s front door was covered in a beaded condensation that formed small trickling waterfalls down the outside wood. Protruding, laminated flyers for the car wash down the street, acted as cups to host little pools where fairies might go to get cool. A cream colored letter hung from the slot in the door, its corners moving up and down, up and down with the breeze outside. A small tear on its end, showed signs of being mishandled - forced through the letter slit angrily like an unwanted home truth. Two leaflets for the Sunday market down the street, and the chicken shop’s discount menu, sandwiched it just enough to keep its form in tact.