Chris DeLuca

My sister and I maybe thirteen years ago. I really chose all that.

Two young white peope standing awkwardly next to each other. The woman on the left, my sister, has long red hair and smiles somewhat uneasily. In the right, is me. I have a red shirt that doesn’t quite fit, khaki pants, a grey blazer, and on my head is a floppy, misshapen dark green fedora. I have a thin, untrustworthy beard. Unkept curls sprout from under the hat. My expression is haunted. We are in a kitchen.

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