Jose´s nuthouse fears mess with both our lives.  We reside in a pleasure-sucking colonial knock-off of a pueblito because that´s where Jose´s money-grubbing family lives; he´s comfortable here; yadda yadda.  And  I am too weak or too nice or possibly just too stupidly hopeful to bail.  Meanwhile, Jose worries about religious loonies who believe we´ve purchased nonrefundable, one-way tickets for some butt-fucking faggoty hell-realm (helpfully illustrated in the pamphlets they hand out downtown), religious loonies only too willing to kill if that will get Satan´s train out of the station early.  Jesus Christ.

It would be easier to bolt if Jose was merely an abusive asshole.  I´ve left abusive assholes before — with great reluctance and great difficulty, sure — but still, I´ve left. As paranoid schizophrenics go, Jose´s a keeper.  Smart, loving, kind-hearted.  And did I mention cute?  A great guy really if only you can get past how he peeps nervously through the curtains before leaving the apartment. If only you can get past his conviction that the murderously unsmiling dude sitting on a park bench over there, the one chatting suspiciously on his mobile phone, has plans, later on this very evening, for his dismemberment.  If only…

But I can´t get past any of those things.  Believe me, I´ve tried.



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