By Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
An autumn afternoon nap, the fan is humming a constant lullaby. Memories of sticking my fingers between the grate of the aluminium cage of the fan, wondering if it would bite or shear the tips of my fingers. I forgot the heat, the mean boy who threatened me with lewd gestures on the way home. Afternoon naps are like my mother’s bowls of chicken congee with a high fever and a stuffy nose.