The VHS tape hisses & you’re married. A grainy summer day. You & her in the black doorway, fuzzing. You looking at her & her looking at you. A handful of rice flies across the screen. On this side of the television, you & me alone in your living room, Mom in the kitchen. It’s summer here, too & California is the house where I watch you watch you. On this side of the television, you don’t move. The reflection in your eyes, blue. Flickering. You got married in a time before sound, when everything had to be said in color, bodies shimmering like air above the road on a hot day. The leather couch squeaks under my seven-year-old thighs, but you’re not even blinking, not even as you’re crying, looking at you & her looking at you & her, the lens flares like a firework, her white dress floods the screen & she’s laughing so hard her mouth might swallow her face.


Felix Lecocq is a Vietnamese American writer and copyeditor living in Chicago. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Peach Mag, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere. His chapbook of lyric essays, Mosquito: A Memoir (2022), was published through the University of Chicago Migration Stories Project. He is working on his first novel.