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The other Puerto Rican from work lives alone, deep in Queens. He invites me over to watch the news coverage. We drink Bacardi neat, suck its heat through our back teeth. He worries a rosary between calloused fingers—the gesture could make this once-Catholic boy into a new Catholic man. But I remember the papery taste of Communion wafers and a mouth slick with cum; I remember false confessions, the truth a lump in my throat. He takes my hand in prayer, but Salvation isn't coming, it's passed right through us.