“An improvement or a drawback?”
“Did you ever visit Europe?” she asked, changing the topic because she would have liked him even if he couldn’t string two words together and she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“No,” he said. “Something always got in the way.”
“Even though you could afford it by now?”
“Maybe I was afraid I wouldn’t find you. Or I would and it would be different.”
She chuckled and he shifted, looking down at her.
“What’s funny?”
“I have no idea,” Meche said.
There was a scar on his left hand which had not been there before, a long gash which went up his arm.
“What happened?”
“Car accident,” he said. “Three years ago.”
Meche stretched out a hand, touching his brow, a tiny little line there.
“And that one?”
“Someone cracked a bottle open on my head.”
“Really?”
“It was a wild 1999.”
He stretched his hand down her leg and tugged at the denim, exposing her tattoo. It was a sentence, circling the ankle.
“‘A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,’” he read. “Someone finally read Shakespeare.”
Just so I could come back at you when you called me illiterate,
she thought and that sounded too much like admitting he’d had some huge influence on her life. Which was not the case. Not really.
“Drunk in Amsterdam, 2000. It seemed like a good idea at the time. At least it’s not a Looney Tunes character or some Chinese character I can’t read.” She glanced at him. “No tattoos?”
“No tattoos and no piercings.”
“What kind of damn punk were you?” she asked moving closer to him and he shifted a bit too, closing the gap between them.
“A very low-key punk.”
“Your shirts look expensive.”
“Some are. Still with the t-shirts?”
“Can’t wean myself off them,” she said looking down at the one she was wearing. Abba. “My defense is it’s vintage-chic.”
“That’s not chic. They do fit better than they used to though.”
“Yeah, well, bras help.”
“Do you keep a bag-lady jacket in your closet?” he asked.
“That was an awesome jacket,” she said.
“No. It was god-awful.”
“You drew on your shoes.”
“I still doodle. Not on my shoes. You should come to my place and look at some of my drawings.”
Meche scoffed. “That’s such a cheap come-on.”
“I can try something better.”
Meche touched his clavicle, curious. It just looked so sharp and chiseled. He was still very thin, although now there was some strength. Sebastian caught her hand and held it, kissing her lightly.
“I think you’re lovely,” he said.
“That’s still a cheap come-on.”
“It’s true.”
Meche lapsed into silence, pondering, glancing at the palm trees and the flamingoes on the curtains.
“I have a lot of organizing,” she said. “I assume you have that job you need to show up for. Mr. Creative Director.”
“Not until nine.”
“What time is it?”
“Six. Do you want to have breakfast with me? Even though you don’t do breakfast?”
No,
she thought.
What’s the point of that?
“I should shower,” she said, which was not exactly what she had been intending to say.
“Ah,” he said, kissing her shoulder. “Not yet.”
M
ECHE LOOKED AT
the grapefruit, sinking her spoon into it, toying with the pulpy interior and wondering at what point she had lost her mind and whether she was going to get it back soon.
Breakfast with Sebastian Soto. Not only that, breakfast with Sebastian Soto after she’d had sex with him. Twice. As if to make a point that mistakes were better performed in pairs.
In for a pound,
she thought.
“Time?” she asked, twisting his hand, trying to get a look at his wristwatch.
“We have time enough.”
“You said you had work later.”
“I’ll worry about work.”
He caught her fingers, turned her hand up to look at her palm and smiled.
“It’s good to have you back,” he said.
The smile stabbed her hard. Meche wished she could slink under the table and stay there for about a decade.
“Hey, since we missed the movie we could go to listen to some live music. Jazz in Coyoacán. It’s a small joint. Well, it’s really a house and they can only fit like twenty people, but it’s good.”
She had a vague idea of what a jazz club with Sebastian would look like, a pleasant, blurry sort of image, as seen through a black and white lens. Like the cover of a really nice record. Now who was being sappy?
Meche shook her head.
“I’m flying to Oslo in a few days,” she reminded him. “I’d also like to point out this doesn’t negate my previous opinion of you.”
“You still hate me,” he said, digging into his green
chilaquiles
with gusto. “You still hold a grudge against me.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Even though you had sex with me.”
God, who cared? Meche tossed three sugar cubes into her cup of tea and raised her shoulders slowly.
“Please. It’s not some secret promise. We don’t have to be,” she raised her fingers, turning them into imaginary quotes marks, “‘really, really in love to go all the way.’ Last time I checked we weren’t exactly blushing virgins. We’re grownups and grownups do stupid things.”
She drew some pleasure from his expression, as though she’d just doused him with a bucket of cold water. He’d started this. It was his fault. What had he expected, anyway?
“Thank you,” he said tersely, “for classifying me as a stupid thing.”
“Are you going to get majorly offended?”
“No, I’m not going to get,” he raised his hands, now making the imaginary quote marks for himself, “‘majorly offended.’”
Meche added another sugar cube for good measure and took a sip, then scooped out some grapefruit.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to talk to you. I knew you’d be all melodramatic.”
“Me? Melodramatic?”
“What do you call this? ‘How long have you waited for someone?’
Pfff
. I make one mistake fuck and I’ve got damn Romeo at my doorstep.”
“Forget it.”
He grabbed his fork, busied himself with the
chilaquiles
. Suddenly, he put the fork down and took out his wallet, pulling out several bills and placing them neatly under his glass.
“Here. That should cover it,” he said.
“What? You’re leaving?”
“Yes. Phone my cell if you want to see me again. If you don’t, I’ll just be majorly offended at my place, alright?”
Meche scoffed and crossed her arms. “I don’t have your cellphone number.”
“Then you are going to have to work for it,” he said.
Sebastian leaned down next to her chair, to speak into her ear.
“I’m in love with you. There. Should have said it twenty years ago. Your move.”
She watched him walk away and she had a feeling like when they made a house of cards one time and Meche pulled one card and the whole thing came tumbling down.
Meche plunged the spoon into the heart of the grapefruit and pushed her plate away. This was just... insane.
“I hate breakfast,” she told the grapefruit.
“W
HAT’S UP WITH
you?” her mother asked.
Meche was laying on the couch, listening to Wild is the Wind. She shrugged.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice clipped.
“It looks like something.”
“I’m overdosing on Nina Simone.”
“Your dad used to do that.”
Meche rubbed her eyes. She turned her head. Her mother was still standing in the living room, holding a cup, as though she were expecting to continue the conversation.
“Why didn’t you like him?”
“Who?”
“Sebastian. When we were kids, you were always all over his case. And don’t say you liked him. That’s a lie.”
Her mother smiled, setting her cup on the coffee table. She nodded.
“You loved him too much.”
Meche looked at her in surprise. She didn’t say anything, tucking her chin down and frowning.
“You love somebody that much, one day it all unravels and... it’s just bad. Here, I made tea.”
“Mom, you don’t have to keep making stuff for me all day long.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m your mother.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Meche said, reaching for the cup and taking a little sip. “It has no sugar.”
“It won’t kill you to have a cup without sugar.”
“I like sugar. I should go back to dad’s apartment and finish with the boxes. I’m practically done.”
“Finish your tea.”
Her mother got up and moved towards the kitchen.
Meche stretched her legs and listened to the music. Nina Simone sang Where Can I Go Without You.
Mexico City, 1989
I
SADORA CHEWED HER
nails. It was a bad habit she could not kick. He thought it was cute. It made her flawed and consequently human.
“I think you chew your nails in class because you smoke. It’s a compensation mechanism.”
She offered him a drag, but he declined. She smiled a little.
“Have you been reading our biology textbook or something?”
“Something,” he said.
“Why is it that you don’t smoke but you agree to come here with me?” she asked.
“You asked.”
Three times. She had asked him three times that month and he had agreed. Normally he walked after school with Meche but he had made an exception for Isadora and walked her to the Pit instead. He didn’t know why she asked and he didn’t really want to know because most likely it was pity or sick amusement.
“Would you like to go to the movies with me tonight?” she asked.
“Sure. What time are you guys getting there?”
“I was thinking we might go alone.”
They had never been together without her friends. He wondered what could possibly inspire her to go out with him by herself as though... as though it were a date.
“Hey, Isa.”
Sebastian turned his head. Constantino, along with some of the other boys, was standing on the sidewalk, giving him a very ugly look.
“You coming with us or not?” Constantino asked.
“Gotta go,” Isadora said. “Meet me at seven?”
“That works.”
“Alright.”
“Isa, what the hell? Get your ass here!”
“Coming,” Isadora said, dropping the cigarette and stepping on it with the heel of her shoe.
She hurried off with them and Sebastian stood alone, in the middle of the empty lot, heart hammering in his chest.
I
SADORA’S DRIVER DROPPED
her off right on time in front of the movie theatre. Sebastian watched as she crossed the street, short purple skirt, matching purse and tall boots, looking so very beautiful. There was no reason why she should be hanging out with him. No reason at all. It was a mistake. Pretty girls never looked at him. Hell, no girls looked at him. He was swarthy, which was enough to put off most of his classmates who hungered for the paler boys. He was too tall and odd. When he spoke the words came out wrong.
He watched the movie and ate his popcorn and tried hard to have a good time, but something was off. When the movie was over and they were standing outside, waiting for Isadora’s cab to arrive, he dared to speak up.
“Why are you asking me to hang out with you?”
Isadora clutched her purse with both hands and looked down.
“Well, well. So you did go out after all.”
Constantino. Sebastian turned around. The boy was there with his buddies in tow, all five of them dressed exactly the same: sweaters tied around the shoulders, polo shirts, even the same haircut.
“Hi,” Isadora said. “I thought you weren’t in the mood for the movies.”
“I wasn’t. I just wanted to see if you’d be with him,” Constantino pointed a finger at Sebastian. “Why are you sniffing around my girlfriend? Do you have a death wish?”
“I’m not sniffing around anything,” Sebastian said. “Besides, she’s not your girlfriend.”
“Fuck you.”
Sebastian dodged Constantino’s punch and managed to land one of his own, right in the middle of the bastard’s face. Big mistake. This infuriated Constantino, who began yelling obscenities, telling his friends to get him, kick the crap out of him, teach him a lesson. Sebastian had heard that tune before. He did what any rational person would do in this situation—he ran.
He managed to sprint for several blocks before someone tackled him to the ground, flipped him around and punched him in the stomach, making Sebastian gag. Another punch, this one to the ribs. Then it was all kicks. Sebastian rolled, tried to find purchase on a wall and pull himself up, but he was summarily beaten with something—it might have been an empty beer bottle—and stumbled down again, next to a lamp post. He touched the back of his head. It felt damp and he was dizzy.
“Stop it!” Isadora yelled.
She had followed them. Sebastian felt even worse now, knowing she was witnessing the whole spectacle. There was nothing like a good beating with a side of humiliation.
“Please, stop! No more!”
Nobody listened to her. The boys laughed and continued kicking him. Sebastian raised his hands trying to shield his face. He swallowed blood.
The boys paused and Sebastian was able to stand up. He did not know if they were done with him or if they had just paused for a breather. He was not about to find out. Sebastian limped away.
He heard them when he turned the corner, coming his way. Ready for more fun.
A street musician was playing the guitar nearby. Sebastian concentrated on the melody, his eyes fixed on the hands plucking the strings and he changed his face, his shape. Glamour—just like they’d been practising.
When the boys ran by they saw a stooped, old man resting next to a wall and ignored him. A few seconds later, Sebastian sighed and the tattered illusion he had constructed shattered.
He slid down to the ground, curled up on the sidewalk. People who walked by him took him for a drunk or a street kid.
A couple of hours later, Sebastian opened his eyes, got unsteadily to his feet and began walking home.