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If I’m honest, I’m probably a little tipsy right about now. What can I say, it’s been a long day. But when Teresa tops up my glass, I don’t refuse. If I’m not mistaken—and I very well might be—her movements seem looser, and I think she’s spilled a drop on the table.
Bringing her glass to her mouth, she takes a sip, leaving a liquid sheen to her lips that she doesn’t bother licking off. Not long ago, she came back from somewhere, God knows where. She didn’t say anything upon finding me in the kitchen, only passed by, shucking off her jacket as she did and slinging it over the back of the chair opposite mine. Reaching up to the liquor cabinet, she selected a bottle of mezcal, one that came from Camila’s favourite Oaxacan mezcaleria—seemingly at random, although, knowing Teresa, it easily could have been a deliberate choice—as well as a pair of shot glasses. She seated herself in the chair, the one opposite mine, and poured one for me, one for herself. She never asked whether I wanted a drink, but as she slid it over, she nodded pointedly, most likely to say ‘Here,’ but what I took to mean ‘Drink’.
And I won’t lie, it caught me off guard when she asked me how Kim was.
‘Kim?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fine, I guess. I wouldn’t know.’
At that, her eyebrows creased. Slightly. Before realisation restored her expression to its usual neutral. Actually, she’d seemed a little sheepish, as if uncomfortable with her discovery. Or maybe she hadn’t, and it’s just the alcohol making me remember it that way.
As expected, she never questioned me further to try to pry out an explanation. I never took her for the gossiping sort, anyway. Possibly, she wouldn’t have said anything else at all. But something—and it couldn’t have been the mezcal since, by then, I’d only had a few sips—loosened my tongue (it might’ve been the same thing that had spurred her into asking me about Kim), and I found myself telling her that she’d broken up with me.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she said back.
‘Why?’
I can’t even begin to say what had bought that on, especially since I knew she was only being polite. Thing is, I didn’t want her to be polite.
‘I’—she shrugged and simultaneously shook her head, flustered—‘Shouldn’t I be?’
‘I’m not.’ It was my turn to shrug, going for flippant. (Even as I did it, I was all too aware that I didn’t look flippant at all, that I looked more like a schoolboy pretending to be unbothered to an unparalleled degree by the fact that I’d gotten dumped. Beyond even that, I was conscious that my petulance was more due to Teresa thinking I was hurt than to my actually being hurt.)
Instead of saying something brief to kill the conversation and to escape what anyone would be mistaken to think was bitterness, her head tipped to the side suggestively, in a way that had me wondering whether or not she knew how charming she could be, and if she did know, was the gesture too subtle to be called flirtatious? Her eyes, which bordered on glassy, showed signs of mischief. It was unusual and strangely pleasant.
‘The oil guy?’
I didn’t know whether the effervescence in my chest meant I wanted to huff out a laugh or drag my hand down my face in embarrassment. In the end, I opted to do both, hiding my embarrassed laugh behind my hand.
Thinking back, I probably should’ve held off on the domestics until me and Kim were alone. And yet, I still remember being very conscious of Teresa’s presence throughout, and can’t deny that I had been playing up. To what end? Beats me. I hadn’t, however, allowed for the possibility that she’d ever bring it up, especially to poke fun at me. Not that I particularly blamed her. Not that I particularly minded, either, the small, amused smile on her face making me warm with pleasure, all the more so because her amusement was at my expense. Somehow, don’t ask me how, it made me feel less ridiculous.
Now, with her elbow on the table and her cheek leaning against the knuckles of her left hand, she stares at me, evidently waiting for an answer.
‘Irreconcilable differences,’ I say, as if I’m in a divorce court and she’s the judge.
Go on, her smirk—which technically isn’t a smirk, although the smug (maybe not smug; maybe playful) lift of her features gives that impression—seems to be saying. I find myself enjoying her interest. ‘She got sick of high-end shit.’
Without changing, her expression loses its humour and becomes softer. She probably pities me.
‘It’s a tough life. She didn’t wanna be part of it anymore. It’s for the best.’
She nods. ‘Well, I’m still sorry, even if you aren’t.’
I nod in return.
‘But you’re right. It is for the best.’ She takes a sip. I do too, surprised. In a matter of seconds, as I try to figure out what she means, insecurity fills me, afraid that she’s come to the conclusion that I was a bad boyfriend, that being rid of the likes of me is the best, the wisest decision a woman can make. ‘She’s smart. I wish I’d made that choice.’
Oh?
‘You wish you’d left your boyfriend?’
‘If I had, I wouldn’t’ve ended up here.’
That makes me feel weird, a combination of relief that my insecurity from seconds ago had been unfounded, disappointment, and then irritation at myself for feeling disappointed. Then, as new insecurity fires at me, I have the irrational, tipsy idea that she’s intentionally trying to offend me by saying she doesn’t want to be here, talking to me (except, obviously, she never said it in those exact words).
The sober part of me, by and large the predominant part, ignores the nonsense, more focussed on the uneven kinks in her hair which falls in a ripple over her shoulder. Her mind—if the pensive way her finger is circling the rim of her glass is anything to go by—is leagues away from me and my ego, which, in my defence, is more susceptible to bruising when slightly inebriated.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s absorbed in memories of her past, of her boyfriend. Again, that same disappointment begins its effect and, as I down my shot, I find it’s becoming harder to push the feeling out of the way. She refills mine, leaves hers empty.
Guero Davila. There were many near misses. He dropped off shipments—and Camila herself once—from Mexico. We avoided ever meeting on all occasions. Not that I’d even noticed at the time. If I’d ever registered his existence at all, it was as a better than average pilot who worked for my boss’s husband. No one I needed to bother myself about. After Teresa arrived at the warehouse, I added thief onto that list.
Graduating from the rim, Teresa begins tracing nondescript shapes on the tabletop.
Whether Kim’s better off without me or not, I never put her in that type of danger. I always took extra measures, always told her the truth, was always straight. Being the only person in my life that I cared for at the time, I protected her as best as I could. Guero never did that for Teresa. If he had, she wouldn’t be here right now.
‘He was selfish.’
Let me just clarify—I would never have said that if I hadn’t had . . . how many drinks have I had? Enough so that I’m definitely more than tipsy, without being all the way drunk. Teresa must’ve had the same thought because, after a swift glance at my almost empty glass, she plugs the cork back in the bottle and moves it further away from me, telling me, without words, that I’ve had enough. Luckily she doesn’t seem annoyed at my comment. Instead, she simply shakes her head. Patiently, almost kindly, the way you would a child when you’re trying to teach them something.
‘He gave me enough warnings. I should’ve known better. I did know better. But I was too . . .’ Again, she shakes her head, cutting herself short, obviously thinking better of whatever it is she was going to say. Part of me is impatient, wanting her to let her guard down, wanting her to share more of herself with me. The other part is relieved, suspecting that the end of that sentence was heading in a direction that I wouldn’t have appreciated, something along the lines of ‘I was too in love with him.’ Just imagining her saying that is enough to deflate my mood, causing a sinking throb somewhere indistinct, in the area between my chest and belly (liver? Makes sense). As it is, I’m able to avoid too much consideration of my reaction, placing the blame—as with everything else—on the alcohol. If she were to actually to have said it, I imagine my response (non-verbal) would’ve been too great for me to simply bypass like I can now, and then I would’ve had to ask myself some uncomfortable questions regarding Teresa, which would’ve inevitably bought in my state of affairs with Camila, and then God forbid that in the midst of my mental dilemma, my tongue should loosen again, since I’m currently without full control over it, and I blurt out some of these thoughts.
‘You know,’ she says, and I immediately lean in, drawn to her, to her voice. It’s like tunnel vision.
‘Back when I was still working as a moneychanger, before I met Guero, I used to live in a tenement complex. My apartment was tiny, just one bedroom, one bathroom, and a stove area. It was filled with damp, and no matter how much I would clean it, there was always dust. In the heat, it became unbearable, and I couldn’t afford an air conditioning unit. I could just about afford rent.’
How old had she been? Fifteen? Young. Still a kid. Is she justifying herself, the decisions her younger self made? Does she think I was judging her?
True, a man like Guero—what I knew of him anyway, which isn’t much, isn’t anything really, except a perception, quite a thorough, resolute perception at that, of an aggravating clown—was completely at odds with what I’ve come to know of Teresa. But if I’m being honest with myself, there isn’t much I know about Teresa, either. I know so little, in fact, that having a half-drunken heart-to-heart is the closest I’ve seen to her at ease. Without much difficulty, I can envision Teresa, her face a little fuller with baby fat, in the shoddy home she describes, hustling through hardships then as she does now. As if it were second nature. It pains me that I can’t picture her happy, falling in love like every other normal teenager. Too bad it was with the wrong person.
She is looking at me now the same way she looked at me when we stood before Rolando’s memorial, as if she were on the verge of tears, only now there’s a sad, reminiscent smile on her face. ‘I’d do anything,’ she says, ‘to be back there.’
In a lot of ways, she’s still an enigma to me. Because what I took as justifying herself to me, as if someone as self-possessed as her would ever feel that she owed me an explanation for something that’s none of my business, is actually her mourning a version of herself she thinks she’s lost. She isn’t sorry for loving Guero, despite what he’s done. She certainly isn’t going to apologise for it, least of all to me. Not that I would want her to.
What would it be like to be the recipient of her love? It isn’t the first time I've asked myself that. Since she braved an entire militia of patriots, risking deportation—worse, her life—for me, that question hasn’t been far from my thoughts. I’m scared to face it. So scared that I’ve built a barricade, a mental blockade in the shape of a wall, a wall with a window dead in the centre and the curtains drawn. Behind those curtains are my answers to that question—at least, everything I’m able to imagine anyway—and even a peek threatens to destroy me. Knowing that is the only thing helping me keep the temptation, the temptation to look, at bay.
And when you flip it, the question being like a coin, heads and tails, there’s the other side of it. What would it be like to be able to love her? Admittedly, this question frightens me less, and recently I’ve found myself indulging in it, especially when alone. It harms no one, not even me, to entertain innocent fantasies. I never let them go too far, wanting to protect her privacy, needing her permission, even in my mind.
And in my mind, I am granted free reign. I can redo moments, be kinder to her in our beginning, establish a friendship, gain her trust. Instead of surveilling her, I help her escape, give her freedom, ask her to wait for me as I plan my own. Right now, my eyes scan her, taking their time with every feature, her sharply carved cheekbones; her skin, with a sparse smattering of faint freckles, tinged pink; her feathery brows; her dark eyes, glossy and rich, and the curled lashes that crown them; her nose, gently arced and rounded; her lips, lips I wouldn’t mind kissing. The kiss’d start shy, almost teasingly soft. I’d linger, bumping my nose against hers, letting her breaths heat my face as my hands travel to the small of her back, tugging timidly, bringing her closer, letting her scent, shampoo, fabric softener, and her rose-like musk (today, as I half-carried her through the desert, I was close enough to learn her smell), completely intoxicate me. From there, I’d grow bold, pulling her flush against me to fully feel the difference in our height, and I’d make a point of tipping her chin up, stroking with my thumb, and leaning down. Her mouth would be a little parted so that I could get a true taste this time. Each kiss would be drawn out, catching her lower lip between mine, pulling, then using the tip of my tongue, only the tip, to brush.
We’d go to her bedroom where everything smells of her, and I can almost feel—almost but not quite, never quite—the heady comfort of her weight pressed on top of me, petting me, arms cradling my head, hands stroking my hair, and I realise I’m heading into dangerous territory, her caresses taking the form of affection, of something I can’t allow myself even to dream of.
More than anything, I want to comfort her. Tell her something, anything, yet everything I think of sounds hollow, like a lie. I feel as trapped as she does, and I don’t know if we’re ever going to make it out. Before I can say something, she beats me to it.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘You once told me that you had a plan for your future.’
Yes, and I’d said a few other things, too. About how I should get me a taser, like the one Batman had used to stun her (after being stunned today—I’d bet money it was Karma, coming back to bite me in the ass—I can tell you that it’s not pleasant); about how the win streak against death she seemed to be on was just luck, nothing to do with her will to live, and that she shouldn’t expect to get lucky again; about how she was trouble, and she should be more careful of getting me caught in crossfire meant for her.
Noticing my grimace, she bestows her same amused smile from earlier, and I sense that she’s reassuring me.
‘What’s the plan?’
What’s the plan? I don’t even know myself.
‘There isn’t really one anymore.’
She clearly wants to know more, and again, I find myself enjoying her attention.
‘I have this trailer out on a lakefront, in a secluded, woodland area. Me and Kim . . . We’d planned to build a house out there, settle down. After—you know—leaving all this behind.’
She looks a bit downcast as I finish.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.
‘For what?’ I ask, out of genuine curiosity this time, rather than an attempt at fighting her sympathy.
‘I dunno, it’s just . . . sad.’
Is it? Since the breakup, I’ve barely had time to even think about Kim, let alone our future home in the woods. Now, it just seems unrealistic. Not the house. Not even eventually getting out of the business. But a few weeks of being parted from Kim has given me a clarity that I lacked during the entirety of our relationship. I always knew we were different, was more than familiar with our problems. Yet, despite that, I was determined to make it work. It may be strange, but I thought it’d be a way to prove to myself that I wasn’t an altogether bad person. All the issues with this are all too obvious to me now, and the prospect of spending a lifetime with Kim seems like a disaster in the making. And maybe I always knew that.
‘You think it’s possible? To have . . . a relationship in this life?’ I believe she was going to say ‘love’ but decided against it, ‘love’ being too intimate, ‘love’ carrying implications that are better left alone.
I can’t answer her properly without exposing something—I don’t know what, exactly, just that whatever it is has implications, the same way the word ‘love’ has, that are better left alone. ‘Why?’ I say instead, raising my eyebrow mockingly, ‘You decide you’re gonna make that call to Carl?’
This time I’m sure it’s a smirk on her face, and I’m damn certain she’s completely aware of exactly how charming she is, and am pretty sure—but maybe I’m being presumptuous, or maybe it’s just the alcohol—that she’s flirting with me. Picking up the glasses, she sets them in the sink with a soft clang before replacing the bottle of mezcal in the cabinet.
‘Not tonight,’ she says, so softly I almost shiver.
She covers my hands, which rest on the table, fingers interlocked, briefly with one of hers.
‘I’m going to bed.’
I try my hardest to ignore the fact that it sounds like an invitation and wish her goodnight.