We Need Diverse Ya Sale
 
 

Special Offers see all

Enter to WIN a $100 Credit

Subscribe to PowellsBooks.news
for a chance to win.
Privacy Policy

Visit our stores


    Recently Viewed clear list


    The Powell's Playlist | June 29, 2015

    Roger Hobbs: IMG Soundtrack of Macau: Roger Hobbs's Playlist for Vanishing Games



    My new novel, Vanishing Games, is a heist thriller set in the gambling city of Macau, China. I lived there briefly while researching the book and... Continue »
    1. $18.17 Sale Hardcover add to wish list

      Vanishing Games

      Roger Hobbs 9780385352642

    spacer
Qualifying orders ship free.
$16.00
New Trade Paper
Ships in 1 to 3 days
Add to Wishlist
Qty Store Section
3 Airport Literature- A to Z
1 Beaverton Literature- A to Z
10 Burnside Literature- A to Z
2 Hawthorne Literature- A to Z
25 Local Warehouse Literature- A to Z
25 Remote Warehouse Literature- A to Z

More copies of this ISBN

This Is How You Lose Her

by

This Is How You Lose Her Cover

ISBN13: 9781594631771
ISBN10: 1594631778
All Product Details

 

 

Excerpt

Year 0
       Your girl catches you cheating. (Well, actually she’s your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught you with one sucia, she could have caught you with two, but as you’re a totally batshit cuero who didn’t ever empty his e­mail trash can, she caught you with fifty! Sure, over a six­-year period, but still. Fifty fucking girls? Goddamn. Maybe if you’d been engaged to a super open-minded blanquita you could have survived it—but you’re not engaged to a super open­minded blanquita. Your girl is a bad­ass salcedeña who doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact the one thing she warned you about, that she swore she would never forgive, was cheating. I’ll put a machete in you, she promised. And of course you swore you wouldn’t do it. You swore you wouldn’t. You swore you wouldn’t.
       And you did.
       She’ll stick around for a few months because you dated for a long long time. Because you went through much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Over a tortured six-­month period you will fly to the DR, to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand. You will walk the beach where they filmed The Piano, something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent desperation, you give it to her. She is immensely sad on that beach and she walks up and down the shining sand alone, bare feet in the freezing water, and when you try to hug her she says, Don’t. She stares at the rocks jutting out of the water, the wind taking her hair straight back. On the ride back to the hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple, so mixed it’s ridiculous, and so giddy with love that you almost throw them out the car. She says nothing. Later, in the hotel, she will cry.
       You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. You stop drinking. You stop smoking. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e­mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—­It was the book! It was the pressure!—­and every hour like clockwork you say that you’re so so sorry. You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. You consider not going. You consider a squat protest. In fact, you say won’t go. But in the end you do.
       For a while you haunt the city, like a two­-bit ballplayer dreaming of a call-­up. You phone her every day and leave messages, which she doesn’t answer. You write her long sensitive letters, which she returns unopened. You even show up at her apartment at odd hours and at her job downtown until finally her little sister calls you, the one who was always on your side, and she makes it plain: If you try to contact my sister again she’s going to put a restraining order on you.
       For some Negroes that wouldn’t mean shit.
       But you ain’t that kind of Negro.
       You stop. You move back to Boston. You never see her again.
 
Year 1
       At first you pretend it don’t matter. You harbored a lot of grievances against her anyway. Yes you did! She didn’t give good head, you hated the fuzz on her cheeks, she never waxed her pussy, she never cleaned up around the apartment, etc. For a few weeks you almost believe it. Of course you go back to smoking, to drinking, you drop the therapist and the sex addict groups and you run around with the sluts like it’s the good old days, like nothing has happened.
       I’m back, you say to your boys.
       Elvis laughs. It’s almost like you never left.
       You’re good for like a week. Then your moods become erratic. One minute you have to stop yourself from jumping in the car and driving to see her and the next you’re calling a sucia and saying, You’re the one I always wanted. You start losing your temper with friends, with students, with colleagues. You cry every time you hear Monchy and Alexandra, her favorite.
       Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel you’ve been exiled to, becomes a serious problem. You have trouble adjusting to it full­time; to its trains that stop running at midnight, to the glumness of its inhabitants, to its startling lack of Sichuan food. Almost on cue a lot of racist shit starts happening. Maybe it was always there, maybe you’ve become more sensitive after all your time in NYC. White people pull up at traffic lights and scream at you with a hideous rage, like you nearly ran over their mothers. It’s fucking scary. Before you can figure out what the fuck is going on they flip you the bird and peel out. It happens again and again. Security follows you in stores and every time you step on Harvard property you’re asked for ID. Three times, drunk whitedudes try to pick fights with you in different parts of the city.
       You take it all very personally. I hope someone drops a fucking bomb on this city, you rant. This is why no people of color want to live here. Why all my black and Latino students leave as soon as they can.
       Elvis says nothing. He was born and raised in Jamaica Plain, knows that trying to defend Boston from uncool is like blocking a bullet with a slice of bread. Are you OK? he asks finally.
       I’m dandy, you say. Mejor que nunca.
       Except you’re not. You’ve lost all the mutual friends you had in NYC (they went to her), your mother won’t speak to you after what happened (she liked the fiancée better than she liked you), and you’re feeling terribly guilty and terribly alone. You keep writing letters to her, waiting for the day that you can hand them to her. You also keep fucking everything that moves. Thanksgiving you end up having to spend in your apartment because you can’t face your mom and the idea of other people’s charity makes you furious. The ex, as you’re now calling her, always cooked: a turkey, a chicken, a pernil. Set aside all the wings for you. That night you drink yourself into a stupor, spend two days recovering.
       You figure that’s as bad as it gets. You figure wrong. During finals a depression rolls over you, so profound you doubt there is a name for it. It feels like you’re being slowly pincered apart, atom by atom.
       You stop hitting the gym or going out for drinks; you stop shaving or washing your clothes; in fact, you stop doing almost everything. Your friends begin to worry about you, and they are not exactly the worrying types. I’m OK, you tell them, but with each passing week the depression darkens. You try to describe it. Like someone flew a plane into your soul. Like someone flew two planes into your soul. Elvis sits shivah with you in the apartment; he pats you on the shoulder, tells you to take it easy. Four years earlier Elvis had a Humvee blow up on him on a highway outside of Baghdad. The burning wreckage pinned him for what felt like a week, so he knows a little about pain. His back and buttocks and right arm so scarred up that even you, Mr. Hard Nose, can’t look at them. Breathe, he tells you. You breathe nonstop, like a marathon runner, but it doesn’t help. Your little letters become more and more pathetic. Please, you write. Please come back. You have dreams where she’s talking to you like in the old days—­in that sweet Spanish of the Cibao, no sign of rage, of disappointment. And then you wake up.
       You stop sleeping, and some night when you’re drunk and alone you have a wacky impulse to open the window of your ­fifth-­floor apartment and leap down to the street. If it wasn’t for a couple of things you probably would have done it, too. But (a) you ain’t the killing­yourself type; (b) your boy Elvis keeps a strong eye on you—­he’s over all the time, stands by the window as if he knows what you’re thinking. And (c) you have this ridiculous hope that maybe one day she will forgive you.
       She doesn’t.

From This is How You Lose Her © September 2012 by Junot Diaz, published by Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted with permission from the publisher.

What Our Readers Are Saying

Add a comment for a chance to win!
Average customer rating based on 1 comment:

lukas, January 5, 2014 (view all comments by lukas)
Junot Diaz's latest returns to the familiar territory of his debut short story collection, "Drown." These are earthy, sometimes vulgar stories of love, sex and all the ways it can go wrong. I agree with one of the commentators, that it's a very male book and you won't find many well-drawn female characters in hear. Then again, the male characters are pretty shallow too. The final story is the strongest. I preferred his novel.
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No
(5 of 11 readers found this comment helpful)

Product Details

ISBN:
9781594631771
Author:
Diaz, Junot
Publisher:
Riverhead Trade
Subject:
General Fiction
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Stories (single author)
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Edition Description:
Paperback / softback
Publication Date:
20130903
Binding:
Paperback
Grade Level:
from 12
Language:
English
Pages:
240
Dimensions:
8 x 5.13 in 1 lb
Age Level:
from 18

Other books you might like

  1. With Their Eyes: September 11th: The... Used Trade Paper $2.50
  2. Norwegian Wood
    Used Trade Paper $8.00
  3. East of Eden
    Used Mass Market $6.95
  4. Play It As It Lays Used Trade Paper $6.95
  5. May We Be Forgiven Sale Hardcover $7.98

Related Subjects

Featured Titles » Arts
Featured Titles » General
Featured Titles » Literature
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z

This Is How You Lose Her Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$16.00 In Stock
Product details 240 pages Riverhead Trade - English 9781594631771 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

A wonderful series of vignettes that expose the absurdity of love and relationships. Growing up in a Latino neighborhood, I found Diaz's narrative tone very familiar. Each of these stories could've easily been told to me while riding with a cholo in a broken-down Honda Accord, cruising down Boyle Heights, while listening to The Delfonics.

"Review" by , "Searing, sometimes hilarious, and always disarming....Readers will remember why everyone wants to write like Diaz, bring him home, or both. Raw and honest, these stories pulsate with raspy ghetto hip-hop and the subtler yet more vital echo of the human heart."
"Review" by , "Diaz's standout fiction remains pinpoint, sinuous, gutsy, and imaginative....Each taut tale of unrequited and betrayed love and family crises is electric with passionate observations and off-the-charts emotional and social intelligence....Fast-paced, unflinching, complexly funny, street-talking tough, perfectly made, and deeply sensitive, Diaz's gripping stories unveil lives shadowed by prejudice and poverty and bereft of reliable love and trust. These are precarious, unappreciated, precious lives in which intimacy is a lost art, masculinity a parody, and kindness, reason, and hope struggle to survive like seedlings in a war zone."
"Review" by , "Diaz's third book is as stunning as its predecessors. These stories are hard and sad, but in Diaz's hands they also crackle."
"Review" by , "One of contemporary fiction's most distinctive and irresistible voices."
"Review" by , "Talent this big will always make noise."
"Review" by , "Graceful and raw and painful and smart....The pages turn and all of a sudden you're done and you want more."
"Review" by , "Like Raymond Carver, Diaz transfigures disorder and disorientation with a rigorous sense of form....[He] wrings the heart with finely calibrated restraint."
"Review" by , "Exhibits the potent blend of literary eloquence and street cred that earned him a Pulitzer Prize....Diaz's prose is vulgar, brave, and poetic."
spacer
spacer
  • back to top

FOLLOW US ON...

     
Powell's City of Books is an independent bookstore in Portland, Oregon, that fills a whole city block with more than a million new, used, and out of print books. Shop those shelves — plus literally millions more books, DVDs, and gifts — here at Powells.com.