Her mother is a bruja from the cardboard barrios of Nicaragua, sitting in the sunken living room, holding a knife, reflecting the red apple twisting in her other hand. She looks nothing like her daughter, pointing to the front of the house. She says you can’t take me anywhere unless you water the lawn. So I watered the lawn and my girl put on the Stones, and for a few minutes we sat on the porch and listened to Mick Jagger sing: –Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl Come on baby please, please, please-- -She’s asking what time you’re going to bring me back. 10pm I say. Up in the Burbank hills we felt the earth rattle and the roads became parking lots and I delivered her back home to her mother at 11:22pm Mentiroso! Mentiroso! She shouted She’s says you’re a liar. Tell her, I’m sorry. It was the earthquake, the roads were backed up. The following week, I met her father and her two stepbrothers, on her father’s ranch in Sun Valley, and he pointed a shotgun to my face and everyone laughed, except me of course. Her father then grilled up some of his world class burgers and proceeded to tell me that the Contras, are at this very moment, running through the jungle brush for love and country. After we were done eating, I noticed to my right, the shotgun resting against the propane tanks and to my left, her father, exploring the deep recesses of his teeth with a toothpick, and her brothers continuing to stare at my sneakers. It dawned on me, right then, how the sky in that very moment was exactly the same color as my girl Gabriela's eyes.