You, Yunior, have a girlfriend named Alma, who has a long tender horse neck and a big Dominican ass that seems to exist in a fourth dimension beyond jeans. An ass that could drag the moon out of orbit. An ass she never liked until she met you. Ain’t a day that passes that you don’t want to press your face against that ass or bite the delicate sliding tendons of her neck. You love how she shivers when you bite, how she fights you with those arms that are so skinny they belong on an after- school special.

Evan Rose breathed deeply. He held the air in his lungs and let it out slowly, waiting for the inner tranquility to arrive per dictum of his yoga teacher Dale Barkin. This was supposed to create harmony, inner peace, and since Evan was caught in his own wires, dangling off a tree, hanging over the ground, bone poking out of his skin everywhere, a little inner tranquility was due. Amazingly, it was the memory of the mistake that was most painful: he should have accelerated after the whip-stall, but he hadn’t been able to make himself do it. It was basic: accelerate during free fall and get lift in the chute. He had trained and trained, but when the moment finally came he had let himself drop. And it wasn’t just his pilot training that had failed him, his level of panic was also an indictment against the yoga classes. If he ever got back home, there was going to be an awful lot of litigation before this would be settled.