Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich

by Sarp Sozdinler

Asya and I are sunning along the rocks by the lake. We are arguing about Run-DMC, about their place in the hall of fame of music. She’s pissed at me for having claimed Ruben is a better producer than Dre. She’s practically yelling at me, calling me a seronja, switching back and forth between English and Bosnian whenever she’s feeling at a loss for words, and the next thing I know we are dead silent. I’m pretending to look out at the lake for a while when in truth I pray for the sun to stoop its head over one of those smudgy-looking clouds in the distance and melt the ice of our mood. I pray for one of those fish in the lake to jump out all of a sudden and bless Asya with freshwater, the same as it has been at our birth, the same as it has been when I first kissed her, the same as it has been with that big black rock now spinning below our feet with determination, humming and crying after us in circles.


Sarp Sozdinler is a writer from Philadelphia and Amsterdam. His fiction has appeared in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Normal School, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.


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