Silvia Moreno-Garcia

“It’s so much more fun when a gentleman offers a lady a cigarette.”

“I can’t even offer you a mint tonight.

Noemí, like any good socialite, shopped at the Palacio de Hierro, painted her lips with Elizabeth Arden lipstick, owned a couple of very fine furs, spoke English with remarkable ease, courtesy of the nuns at the Monserrat—a private school, of course—and was expected to devote her time to the twin pursuits of leisure and husband hunting. Therefore, to her father, any pleasant activity must also involve the acquisition of a spouse.

This house is sick with rot, stinks of decay, brims with every single evil and cruel sentiment.

“I don’t know him, Noemí. None of us do. That is the problem. He is a stranger. He says she has good care and is improving, but for all I know Catalina is tied to her bed right now and fed gruel.”

“And she is the melodramatic one?”

You date a boy twice then at the third date do not phone him back.

Futurismic. Her story, “Maquech,”