I Dream In Italics, Eat In Mandarin and Order In English At the Noodle Shop 
by Dena Rash Guzman

THE INNER WINDOW of this noodle shop is steamy. There is a down of rain out the door but my hair hangs in perfect, shiny waves of ethereal beauty. I am confident in this place, all grace and poise. I am nimble at the wonky stool, defeating its short leg and cracked vinyl cushion.
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It was a battle like no other seen throughout recorded history. The skirmish did not result in any human casualties, as there were no bipeds present at the event. The colossal siege was captured on tape, so experts can now look upon it to study ‘strategery’, aka strategy, to help ensure that another war of this magnitude never takes place again.

The undertaker drew a deep breath! He exhaled little billows of cold air while awaiting the hearse carrying my lifeless body.

His Facebook status read “saving the world”: that’s how I kept tabs on him. Our friendship had been reduced to cyberstalking.

I always felt guilty whenever he called. It was shameful really; seeing his name on my caller ID and ignoring it, once again. I loved him, really I did. He would stop the world from turning if he thought such a colossal act would make me smile. He was everything to me and I him… or at one point, we had been.

Marge lightly touches the top of her prosthetic leg. She pulls down the hem of her knee-length dress. Her gaze never leaves the cowboy’s face, her blue eyes remain static. His eyes make contact with hers. The man walks from the door of the NightOwl Bar and sits on the stool next to hers, moving an absent person’s beer over.