by Émilie Galindo
Her advice –uncalled for and diagnosed from across the 9-to-5 arm’s length desk–was to crank down my features to a wary cinder block wall. To water down my hyperbolic & cartoonish emoting to tepid and tight-lipped detachment. If I had a cup, it’d be filled with years of those unbegged for two cents.
Moments later, I hopped on a tram. Music chirped in my ears as I tried to unring the unbidden advice. I smiled at the lady sitting face to me. She soon handed me her phone. The screen was split into two texts dressed in different letters, but of twin meaning. The one I could understand said :
“I’m from the Far East of Russia where it’s snowing now and very cold. The floral patterns you have adorned yourself with remind me of spring and warmth.” Our shared smile was studded with daisies and buttercups and clover and dandelions. I handed the device back to her. Grateful for her unbidden two cents.
© Émilie Galindo
Growing up, Émilie (she/her) felt that subtext & symbols loomed over her childhood. As she watched her family trip over their own patterns, she couldn’t help but become wary of what she loved most: storytelling (and its pretty patterns). That’s why her writing aims to question the myriads of surrealistic motifs, motives & mementos stowed away in our anecdotes or homespun narratives.
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