Puta. Not a curse, but a crown of broken bottles and bruised roses. She wears it like a war song, hips swaying to a rhythm that cracks the pavement.

Pendeja. Puta. Me despierta. Three blows. Three blessings. The prayer of the sleepless, the hymn of the broken, the alarm clock of the unbroken spirit. Would you like a Spanish version or a more literal/analytical breakdown of the phrase’s possible meanings in different contexts?

Me despierta. And yes—she does wake me.

And for the first time all week, I laugh— the ugly, real laugh of someone who remembers that to be awake is to be a little bit damned, and a little bit free.