We stand at the back of Carmella’s tita’s house, in a little yard. Pot plants. Darkness. Carmella gets out a packet of Marlboro lights.
She offers me one.
She lights them with matches.
How about you? I say. Do you have plans to quit?
Well, she says, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving, the end of this month.
What? I say.
I’m leaving. At the end of the month.
I’m leaving, she says.