excerpts:

I spend the afternoon at the cove with my book before rambling up the rocks toward the farm. I anticipate a swarm of farmers on the two sauna steps, muscles loosening, dirt collecting. I open the glass door to find no one inside, steam rising from the smooth stones. My claustrophobia can overtake me, especially in extreme heat. I started biking in the city in an effort to avoid the panic I felt in the summer subways. I enter the sauna with just a towel, leaving my drinking water outside. I press the door back open immediately, desperate to ease my fear of the door locking behind me. Could the influx of pressure be different tonight because there’s only one body in it? I watch the wood stove breathe. I cry sweat. The pond outside turns into a mirage, a delectable lure I don’t let myself follow. I think about night runs I went on in the city across the bridges. Street lights burnt out as I approached them. In the sauna, there’s a piece of mica on the bench. My friend left it for me; she’s been telling me about how it was once used to make mirrors. These silicate minerals line the path up to the hill cabin on her inherited property. I finger the mica, silver flakes dusting my palms.

I imagine coming home to golden windows, snow foot- steps inching closer to the door, an oven with a lit pilot light. We park the car and admire the phosphorescence making aquatic constellations. Minutes later, we dive in, and watch the tiny sparks outline our bodies. We breathe out steam in unison.

On our way into the foothills, the bus shakes. I look out the window through accordion curtains at the farms: mezcal drips through hollow tubes of bamboo. Century plants, a monocarpic agave. Stalks bloom their once in a lifetime flower.

Why did we have to say goodbye under the marquee? But before we did, he asked me if I remembered my dream from the night before. I didn’t, but he told me that his dream was about his Nicaraguan childhood streets. He found a map of the neighborhood in his father’s pea coat and pocketed it.