Lust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jin Cordaro

said to me earlier in the day, when we were packing in the basement. Stacks of cardboard boxes, full of things forgotten but too precious to throw away, surrounded us.

“You want me to dig her up?” I asked. “We don ’t have a lawn in the new place. Where will we bury her?”

“Maybe we ’ll put her on the mantel, ” she said.

“The mantel? Will we still keep her in the coffee can?”

A distracted look covered my wife ’ s face as she stared at me but didn ’t say anything. I waited. She had a youthful appearance, my wife, and when you looked at her from a certain angle, you could almost make out the young woman she was when we first met, or even the little girl who liked horses, dolls and fairies so long ago.

Waiting, I leaned against some random boxes and fought the temptation to look inside them. Finally, my wife said, “I just don ’t want to leave her. ”

“But after I dig her up, what should I do? Where should I put her?”

“I don ’t know. Will the ashes smell?”

“I don ’t know. ”

“Maybe we should put the can in the fridge, maybe even the freezer, until we figure out what to do with her. ”

The whole thing was crazy. I wanted to let the dog be, but if taking her with us meant my wife would feel better, so be it.

That was how I came to be on the lawn, whacking away at the ground. Across the street, in Pennypack Park, the kids were still fooling around. They were 8 or 9, which was a wonderful age. It was a time of imagination, of playing and pretending. They probably no longer believed in Santa Claus, but they were still young enough to believe in things magic and make believe.

Eventually, the kids went further into the park. At first, I could still see them because the leaves had fallen, but as they went deeper down the path, deeper into the trees and branches, the kids vanished, the park swallowing them up.

I used to take Diana for walks through the park. Our house was so empty sometimes. It was a relief to get away from that.

The park was like another world. It was big enough that, in some parts, you couldn ’t hear any cars or noise. It was like you were in the middle of a gigantic forest, far from houses, far from everything. Old-timers fished in its creek. Kids swung on a tire hung from a tree. You saw deer all the time, and in the early mornings, fog hugged the ground and the world was quiet.

Diana and I did our walks for years, until she got sick. Near the end, we snuck the dog into church, sprinkled her with holy water, hoping for a miracle, for some magic to make it better. I wanted to believe in that kind of thing. Just once, just fucking once, I’d like to see God or an angel or whatever work some magic.

There was no miracle. There never is. We gave the dog a last meal of hamburger and took her to the vet. Then we brought her home and buried her.

After a few more whacks at the ground, I finally found the can. I pulled it out of the dirt with my hands and wiped it off. I found my wife in the basement. “I got the dog, ” I said.

My wife paused her packing, looking distracted again. “Just put her right in the fridge, ” she said. “She ’ll be fine in there. ”

My wife went back to the old things scattered around her. I stood there, holding the can, watching. I wanted to meet her eyes, but she was lost in the boxes.

Upstairs, I looked at the fridge, where report cards and crayon drawings once hung from magnets. I put the coffee can down gently on the kitchen table and opened the door. Cold air drifting over me, I cleared a space. I moved bottles, jars and containers of leftovers to make a special spot for the can.

Then I stopped. The door was open, cold leaking out, but I stood there, not moving. I thought about my wife. I thought about the dog. I thought about lots of things, things that had been buried with Diana in the ground.

Lust

By Jin Cordaro

You ’ll drizzle rich black sesame oil over everything.

You

’ll want things spicy and pickled, with tiny whole fish when normally you don ’t eat things with the head or eyes.

You ’ll take your dumplings, in any form, with a thin, transparent skin, or a hard fried shell still hot from the oil.

You ’ll crave your noodles still slightly firm, and garnished with crisp dark crowns of green onion. Sushi will become your bread and butter.

You ’ll stir-fry all the time.

You ’ll eat peanut sauce like catsup. Your skin will smell like curry steeped in coconut milk with onions.

You ’ll eat it over and over, until even your tears taste like ginger.

Jin Cordaro received her MFA in creative writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Faultline, Sugar House Review, Main Street Rag, Flywheel Magazine, US1 Worksheets, and Cider Press Review. Her work also appears in the anthology “Challenges for the Delusional. ” She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the recipient of the 2009 Editor ’ s Prize from Apple Valley Review. Born in the suburbs of Detroit, Cordaro now resides in central New Jersey with her husband and twin daughters.