I’m on the phone with my mom and she’s crying. I hear her sucking in her nose, then blowing it, then proceeding with a, Por qué me haces esto, por qué me haces esto. POR. QUE. Outside my window a homeless man is yelling, But I love you Joanne! Then the clink clink clink of bottles being dug from the garbage bin. I scratch my belly and look at my hands imagining the wedding band that I will showcase forever in a few weeks, then roll my eyes as my mamá continues her plea in a prime-time telenovela voice—which I imagine also includes hair flips and too many Kleenex. It is Tuesday, I have my period, and I’m getting married in a month.