You, Me, U.S. by Brigitte Bautista

is that?” “Tall, thin, brown hair, red dress.” “Why, anyone could be tall, thin, brown hair, in a red dress! What makes you so sure you’re not wrong?” The woman argued, hands on her hips, standing firm in front of Jo. “Ma’am, she had her hands raised in surrender.” The woman raised her arms and waved them in mockery. “Going to arrest me now, are you?” “If you could please surrender her to us, ma’am, and we’ll be on our way.” “Fuck, no. She’s my cousin!” After a heated exchange, the policemen grew tired of arguing. It was already late in the night. They had already wrangled in twenty others, including the head of the beast. What was letting one loose? The woman, this unlikely savior, didn’t stop running her mouth until the policemen were well out of sight. Slack-jawed in disbelief, Jo followed the woman to a nearby bedspace. She’d been so sure she would rot in a jail cell. But here she was, warming her hands with a cup of coffee. She wasn’t down on the floor on all fours, suffering from a strip search. Instead, she was sitting upright on a weathered Monobloc stool, with all her clothes on her. A wall fan blew cool air on her face. “So sorry I had to call you a whore back there,” the woman said, extending a packet of Marlboros instead of a handshake. “It’s Liza, by the way.” “Jo.” Jo took a cigarette from Liza’s packet. Her hands were still trembling. If it was due to the hand job from earlier or the threat of jail time, she couldn’t tell for sure. “And, thank you. I guess this