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F ICT ION
The Broken Nose By Meiko Ko
I am not sure how it began. It could be something I ate or drank. Nothing is recorded in my diary, and if I look through my receipts, they lead me here. There’s nothing unusual about the pub, any old ordinary place at the corner of a modest hotel, three stars and along a broad street, cars still full at this hour flashing red and green lights. Tonight’s bartender is new, I’m pretty sure I’ve not met her or I’d be hard pressed to forget her height, a man’s, her edgy hairstyle like a bird nest’s fern, dyed platinum. I’m quite sure she winked, when she slid the orange soda cocktail across the counter, that it mustn’t be an illusion that causes me the sensation of floating. I am flattered, surprised of my appeal, still intact, that I thought must have vanished with the man in 2021, the year Dominica came and left, taking along with her all the poultry in the fridge, with a cold note in the freezer compartment that read, “This is what you owe me.” Yes, I’d forbidden her to eat pork. I dislike the stench it left in her mouth, but not my own. Now I must sound like a monster. It is idiosyncratic and unfair of me, I know, but I still make sure my dates are vegetarians or
