by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
You get home to find an eviction notice tacked to your door and you wish you were back on the reservation where the rent was free. You are not a Native American but your ex-fiancée was. My Indian Princess, you used to call her. She’d grin back at you and say, Indians are people from India.
You told yourself when she first walked into that Arizona convenience store that you were going to marry her. And it almost happened; the tribunal allowed you to live on their land to learn their ways.
You were anxious to smoke peyote, surprised when it didn’t do anything for you. Asked to share your visions, you lied and recited some thoughts you once had, high and listening to Hendrix. The engagement ended when one night you went outside for a cigarette and the next day you were told to leave. There had been no boot prints in the fallen snow where you had stood, someone said; only tracks, claws. They believed you were a shape-shifter.
You laugh in a wry manner as you crumple the notice in your fist. You wish they’d been right. Because right now you feel like the nothing your father always said you were. You: still waiting for your life to take on some kind of shape.
Bio: Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a fiction writer and aspiring photographer. She lives in the desert but is moving toward snow before the year’s end. She blogs about life at www.gwennotes.blogspot.com