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Ioanna Mavrou / L.A. Story THERE ARE THINGS I DON’T KNOW YET. Your original hair color, how to get to Miracle Mile, where I came from and where I am going. I don’t speak the same language as you so I can’t find the words to explain it. My mind fills like a tree with sap. Yes, you are sappy and you fill me up so that I forget my own words and can only speak in cryptic sentences. I don’t know where you came from and where you are going. Have we been together always? Have we grown up here, in the crowded rooms of The Griddle and that other place on Sunset we go to sometimes? Did we always eat stacks of pancakes and turkey burgers with fries and talk about our relationship arcs past midnight? In the Egyptian you smell like jasmine and I of sandalwood, or maybe it’s the other way around. I’ve never heard anyone laugh so hard before the day we went to the Silent Movie Theater. No, I don’t think clouds lift dreams and miseries, I think they’re just weather. The waves of the Pacific are magnificent and cold and I need a valet to catch them for me. I’ve grown accustomed. At the Coffee Bean we drink our coffee iced and spy on tiny actors. We have running bets, a weekly game of cards, a band rehearsal space. You play the electric violin and I bang on some tin cans with chopsticks, and we design t-shirts on napkins. I ask rhetorical questions, and count carbs every night to sleep. The sky whispers previews of upcoming possibilities. There are still unopened boxes of our previous lives that we will look into when we can afford a bigger apartment or a therapist. The palm trees don’t understand working lunches any more than box office math, or our YouTube views. 115

Mojave River Review - Winter 2014  

Our inaugural issue, featuring poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and hybrid literary works. Photography for this issue by Frank Foster. Featured...