Pass

 is a novel.

         Juanita sits at the bus stop by CVS on South First. On planet Earth, she is 5 foot 3" and 233 pounds. The time is November 2,023 a.d. She looks south for the bus. She is 14 or 41. Her mother is 39 or 93. Her name's Maria.

When does expositive explanation end and narrative description begin?

If you've wondered, the sky is grey, getting greyer. In Southern New Mexico, the average air temperature is 49.8 Fahrenheit. Juanita has cold lips and nose. She bravely sits and gazes in the direction of the expected bus.

The bus driver accelerates across the street then brakes for Juanita. His name's Ted. Or Teo. He welcomes her. The interior lights already shine brightly, because daylight saving time ended two days ago, and today is ending.

Juanita says hello, thank you. She wears a pinkish pastel sweatshirt and blue jeans. For 45 minutes, in ear buds she listens to top 40 songs on her way home, smiling out the window; black depths of urban scenes transgress into a mirror of her face. 

She stops, 1333 Parker Lane. Walking to her front door, her hip hitches. She cries, smiling.

The wilderness twilight excites her and itself. She keys open her home. 

She sighs loudly for four to 5 seconds, flops her shit down on the kitchen counter and begins to undress.

It's 17:47. She articulates a bathroom ritual. Her cellphone broadcasts a beauty guru's wise words and demonstrations. 

Teo drives into his driveway at 19:23. His wife Consuela just finished making dinner. 

His jaw, neck and shoulders relax.

Everything begins and burgeons. 

2

Juanita incorporates restful intentionality. 

She rolls over and snoozes until 9:09. Thinking of pancakes and maple syrup, she rises wistfully, trudges to the sink, washes and brushes, so sleepily, bravely.

The fucking damn Sun rises. The mountain mists. She correlates the coordinated morning tasks, every simple person.

Juanita shows up at the carpool meet-up at 9:54. All 5 other riders admire and esteem Juanita. 

Wishing they could be her once,

One of the fuckers listens to of Montreal's Cherry Peel in old headphones. 

3

It is NaFaDoYBIMSCoM, so I try to type 2,000 words a day.

John Green patently sits and clay boxes orange and pudge me.

Juanita is 2 or 3 feet from the edge. She relicits.

At 12:03, Terás tests her training skills with unbridled, intermediate uncontained activity. The facility's flashing lights flash, unwarrantedly. Terás tramples the delicate daisies. Already it's 16:46. Suns settle fractiously. 

She leans back from the tortuous escape. 

Back into the chaos she embarks. Tolls the 2nd shift the intercom.

Blood and cancer

Geminiah

uncapitalize.

4

Maria dies at age. The black and white orchids sit on her peninsula.

She was between 18 and 52 when she birthed Juanita. --

Juanita walks through to the bathroom. She holds her face in her hands and has to try to remember if there are other people out there now. Fluffy pink linen and a toilet seat cover smile at her.

She checks her makeup and dabs. Heading back out into the fray, she imagines fried chicken and warm biscuits. 

The clouds pass; Juanita sees the sun.

Sundays at 6 she gets ready to go to get the community room at Southern Mutual Baptist ready.

On her birthday 

Juanita wakes up tired.

On the Death Day

Everyone retires.

The real

On Menchaca and William Cannon