Trece
If he didn't want to walk home in the middle of the night, he could have called an Uber or something. He looks like he could afford it. He should buy a mini flashlight, too; he’s obviously afraid of the dark. Y el boogeyman. And of the boogeyman.
I know he lives in one of those team houses, so there’s got to be a bed he could be in. And it’s a hundred percent better than the floor he’s lying on. I bet he has those rich people sheets that are all nice and soft on his bed, too. Idiota , giving up a night of sleep for this.
?Por qué se quedó? Why did he stay here? It makes no fucking sense. Also… why does he have to look like this? This man is on his back with a sweatshirt under his head, looking fine as hell, sleeping like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Uf, odio su cara de estúpido. Ugh, I hate his stupid face.
He moves, and so does his shirt. I immediately start telling myself not to look. No mires, no mires, no mires. Don’t watch, don’t watch, don’t watch. I don't need another reason to be distracted by him.
Even if I never see his annoying ass again, I already fucking know… if his face looks as good as it does, there’s no way the rest of him isn’t just as fine. I’ll just take a tiny peek…
Oh, Diosas. Why goddesses, why?! I was right.
This man has abs, an outie belly button - que me parece extranamente atractivo , which I find strangely attractive - and a strip of hair that runs under the waistband of his black sweatpants.
Veins , dimples, y abs. No wonder they all go fucking crazy for him.
And why is it a billion degrees in here all of a sudden?! I need him to move so I can run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to bring down the fever I’m clearly spiking.
I may need to dunk my head in the sink at this point. I nudge his body with the tip of my boot, and this man doesn't even flinch. What is he, solid muscle or something? I think to myself and roll my eyes because, of course, he is. I’ll just yell at him instead.
“ Qué carajo, wey. ?Muévete! (What the fuck, dude. Move!)” His dark brown eyes open and stay on me while he sits up. He has this focused look on his face, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pay this much attention to anything.
He stands to his full height and has a crease between his eyebrows from squinting so hard. Something is going on in his head, and whatever it is, it’s making him look like he’s mad as hell.
I can see all his thoughts coming together while his eyes stare into me. What’s he thinking about that’s making him look all pissed off now? There’s literally smoke coming out of his ears like the steam vents above the subway in the city. Whatever it is, it must be fucking serious.
“The fuck? Whose shirt is that?”
“Uh, mine, you idiot, I’m wearing it.” ?Por qué me mira así? Why is he looking at me like that?
“I don’t like it.” I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion.
“And I don’t give a fuck what you like, pendejo .” Absolutamente nada fucks.
“What are you doing with a practice shirt?” ?Está ciego? Is he blind? Do his dumb eyes not work?
“ Again, cabrón , I’m wearing it.” Men are fucking idiots, I swear.
“Which one of them gave it to you?” ?De qué carajo habla? What is he talking about?
“No one gave me shit, I found it.” Why is he going so hard right now? Over this old ass shirt? I don’t know why he gives a fuck.
I cross my arms over my chest and look away. Who gives a shit where I got it? It’s clean and it’s mine now. I’m not giving it back.
“Where?” ?Por qué importa? Why does this matter?
“In a lost and found bin on campus, okay?” You wanna slum it and go dumpster diving, pretty boy? I’m done with his fucking questions. “You done now? What the fuck is this? Some interrogation over my fucking clothes? Shut the fuck up and move, I need to find the bathroom.”
“I don’t like you wearing one of their shirts.” WHY THE FUCK DOES THIS MAN CARE WHAT I WEAR?! I’m getting pissed now and yank off my beanie and try to pull my hair out of my fucking head.
“ ?Por qué te importa, wey? (Why the fuck does this matter to him?) Stop asking me these dumbass questions. Where I get my clothes and what I wear isn’t any of your fucking business.
” This has gotta be the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had in my life, and my whole face pinches together just thinking about the time I’m wasting.
Literally, there are minutes off my life I’ll never get back because he’s hyper-focused on my fucking shirt. “What are you doing here anyway? Go home and annoy someone else with your bullshit, cabrón ,” I tell him and roll my eyes as far back into my head as they can go.
“No, I'd rather fight with you, you spicy little shithead.” Oh no, he didn’t.
This man has the fucking audacity to wink at me while spitting out his latest insult.
And it makes my whole face turn red. It makes me so fucking mad, I feel like my head is gonna pop right off my body.
I really should have kicked him harder when I had the chance.
“You take a bat to the head or something, hockey boy?” He musta lost his goddamn mind.
“Wrong sport, brainiac.” Oh, you wanna see ‘spicy’ motherfucker, I’ll show you ‘spicy’.
“WOULD ANYONE EVEN MISS YOU, IF I STABBED YOU RIGHT NOW?” It wouldn’t even be my fault if I murdered him. Blame it on the ‘spice’.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, HUNT,” the other guy yells out from wherever he is inside his shop.
“I WASN’T TALKING, SHE WAS, YOU OLD FUCK.” Hechos, wey. Facts.
“I’M NOT GONNA TELL HER THAT, SHE SCARES ME, MAN.” He looks like he agrees with his friend, and it makes me smile. Good, I should fucking scare you, pendejo.
We’re doing that annoying thing we do when we try to outstare each other, except this time I don’t feel like playing.
I have to pee, and these fucking cramps in my lower abdomen remind me that I’ve probably bled through my underwear.
It’s been almost a week of this shit, so it’s not as bad now, but I don’t know how other women deal with the torture each month.
I’m out. I step forward into his space, but he doesn’t move.
He’s looking right at me, you’d think he’d get the fucking hint.
“Move it. Muevate ,” I tell him and try to force him back. His head and voice drop so low that they now invade my personal space.
“Say, Please, Ed.” He says “Ed” with a smirk, as if I needed another reason to hate him.
“Fuck you, pendejo, ” I bite back at him seconds before his damn smile starts to take me out. Hace que mi cerebro deje de funcionar; es tan bonito. It makes my brain stop working; his smile is that beautiful.
“Bathroom’s over there.” He sounds like he just swallowed rocas, and I feel like I got hit in the head with one.
I must have a concussion or something. There’s no other explanation for why his gravely voice is making the word bathroom sound all sensual and shit.
I didn’t even realize that was a thing. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that.
I scurry away and lock myself in the bathroom. I do my business and splash cold water on my face over and over again. I gotta scrub the red off my cheeks.
“Turn it off, whatever it is, shut this shit down, you don’t need some man getting in your head,” I tell myself while gripping the sink.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to visualize my hands strangling the shit outta my last thought. This man’s got no business breaking into my brain like that. He’s like an invasive thought.
But it doesn’t work. Because this motherfucker is standing in the doorway to the office with his hands gripping the wooden frame above his head. My eyes are glued to his muscular, tatted arms. The same arms that didn’t hesitate to catch me earlier… y that I felt safe in.
There’s nowhere else to look but at him, and he grins at me like a fool. Oh, Diosas. He’s leaning forward and taking up all the fucking room in the shop. I feel my heart beating wildly in my chest like it’s warning me that this man is fucking trouble.
I walk toward the office and feel dizzy by the time I get to the door. He’s clearly sucking up all the oxygen in here. I step toward him just as he lets go of the doorjamb, and he takes a step back. Then, he steps toward me, and I step back. And we do that three more fucking times.
I’m inches away from his t-shirt covered chest, and make out a square patch underneath the white cotton. Is that a bandage over his heart? Did he get hurt? Did one of the balls he plays with hit him there? Was it there earlier? Who cares… stop giving a fuck.
The distance between us keeps getting smaller and smaller, with the tension building even faster than the disappearing space between us. I could turn around. I could move away. So could he. But neither of us does. ?Qué está pasando esta noche? What is going on tonight?
“You dancing with me, Ed?” His smile’s a problem; it’s got my brain all fucked up. Because all I can think about is that we did just dance a few steps. Y me gustó. And I liked it.
The other thing that Senora úrsula made sure to teach me was dancing.
She taught me how to weave movement into magic and use rhythm to set a spell.
She also taught me traditional steps from Mexico and made sure to instill a foundation of culture for me, even if it was rooted in brujeria .
It’s the only resemblance to fun I ever had as a kid.
She liked to listen to music with a soul and lyrics that told a story.
She played Mexican instrumental folk to dance to when she practiced spellwork and candle magic.
It felt so natural to move my body to her chants, to the musical sounds, and to practice witchcraft.
She made magic in that tiny-ass apartment, in a run-down project, in the middle of X territory. And she was fucking powerful.
She was a part of the life just as much as I was, and taught me survival skills in her own way. She knew I’d need them, and she was right.