F o o d

I blink, and Emma Sinistore is sitting across from me on the upper level of the Army Café.

You Are Goahing In A Circle, she says tracing a loop on the surface of the table. And You Call It Your White Tigerrrr. Her eyes are hazel, stern. You Need To Have Personahl Responsability.

Emma’s been working, flying. She is nonplussed by my prayers and tarot readings and horoscopes and portents from the universe. These Things Have No Power Over You, she warns. You Create The Path As You Walk It. Caminante, No Hay Camino.

During our conversation, Sinistore receives a call from her 22-year-old ex-boyfriend, a man who is spending his life in a Mayan Calendar-based commune. She speaks Argentine gaily into her Blackberry. He has missed an entire week of work because of the disorientation of living in four-day cycles. Will Her Plane Be Flying Into Bariloche Any Time Soon?

Sunshine punches through dirty bus windows. The sound of English dissipates. A single toucan flies through the air. For a few days, I return to Buenos Aires.

D e a t h . . .