“Thanks. I never thought you thought... I’m... like, okay looking.”
“Gee, should I fax you a notice about it? Forget it,” she said, looking uncomfortable.
Sebastian nodded. Later, in the factory, Meche played music and he sat on the floor by the couch, one knee drawn up. He watched her as she grabbed some albums, read the liner notes and stood by the record player.
Sebastian pulled himself up and hovered by Meche, feigning an interest in the record she was examining.
“What... which one is this?” he asked.
“Sarah Vaughan. Body and Soul. It’s jazz.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It never rings a bell for you,” she said, chuckling. “Look, you’ll know this one. It’s Nat King Cole.”
Meche knelt down and placed the record on the turntable, dropping the needle. The man’s voice was spectacular and it seemed to tickle something in his brain.
“Isn’t it from a TV commercial?”
“It’s Unforgettable,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The day you learn anything about jazz I’ll know you’ve lost it.”
“Maybe I will one day. To keep up with you,” he said kneeling next to her.
“Start with Fitzgerald.”
“Who?”
“Ella Fitzgerald. And then maybe Louis Armstrong. Thelonious Monk. Chet Baker. There are like dozens and dozens of people—”
“It’s romantic. This song.”
“It was written by Irving Gordon. The arrangement is by Nelson Riddle... you have no idea who I’m talking about.”
“No.”
“I can put something else on.”
“I like it,” he whispered.
Nevertheless, she heard him, her head turning slightly towards him. Meche’s hands were resting on her lap and he stretched his fingers to clutch one of them. Meche let him hold it for maybe a second before she scooted forward and pulled the needle up.
“I don’t think it’s a day for Mr. Cole,” she said very seriously.
VICENTE VEGA HAD fucked up again. With the profits from his investment, Vicente had planned to quit his job at the radio station and dedicate himself full-time to his book, which was bound to become a bestseller once he could find the right publisher.
Now he was back to square one. In truth, he had never even left square one.
He smoked his cigarette and sat in the bar, nursing a double scotch, with his notebook in front of him. He’d been writing song lyrics but they wouldn’t come right, so he’d decided to have one drink. That had turned into two and now he was on the sixth.
A couple more and he’d be ready to shuffle back to his apartment. A couple more and he could start smiling at the songs playing inside the joint. A couple more and he could whistle a tune as he walked out.
It was going to be better. One day. Soon.
Mexico City, 2009
MECHE BLINKED AND raised her hand. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, sneaking through her parted fingers as she shielded her face. She turned around and frowned. It was a narrow bed and long-limbed Sebastian was taking up most of the space.
She slipped on her t-shirt, running quickly towards the kitchen. She decided to make tea.
The kettle whistled and Meche poured the hot water into a cup. She sat on the counter and tilted her head, looking at the cheap calendar on the wall, the kind one gets from a grocer every year. It read May 2009 and had a sappy picture of puppies. Her father had forgotten to change the month—or had not been bothered enough to do it.
What would Mr. Vega have said about this development? He would have laughed, no doubt. Her father had a sick sense of humour and he would have found some pleasure in her embarrassment. He might even have pointed out that they shared a genetic code and thus a proclivity to make really bad choices; to fuck people they shouldn’t fuck, and fuck themselves into a corner.
She had always considered herself a bit more level-headed, at least since she’d grown up.
Turns out she was wrong.
“Awesome,” Meche muttered.
She wish she had music. Her iPod was in the bedroom but she was reluctant to fetch it. She decided to think about songs, go over lyrics in her head. Love Will Tear Us Apart was the first thing she could conjure. No, not that. Jazz, that old friend, would do. Sebastian interrupted her before she had even reached the third line of “How High The Moon.”
“You always get up so early?”
Meche did not look at him, finding the puppies a good focal point.
“I usually get up around noon,” she said. “I code at nights and wake up late.”
“And then you don’t have breakfast.”
“Breakfast in Norway is pickled beets and sweet pickles and Gammelost. Maybe fårepølse. I’ve never been able to get into it.”
He stood in front of her, shirtless, and Meche blushed even though she was far too old to be blushing.
“I can’t believe how short your hair is,” he said, raising a hand to touch it.
“I’m sorry, this is too weird,” she said, jumping down from the counter and evading his touch.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you naked.”
“You have now.”
“That is not... yeah, that’s why it’s weird. We never had a thing. It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. I was too dumb. I barely even kissed you that one time.”
“Sorry. I can’t talk without my trousers,” Meche said. “It’s freaking me out.”
She marched back into the bedroom and scooped up her jeans, buttoning them and wondering if she shouldn’t have just run out of the apartment when she woke up. It might have avoided this very awkward conversation.
“Shoes,” she whispered, looking under the bed. Where the hell had they gone? “Okay, yeah, explain that to me.”
Meche knelt next to the bed and set her hands upon the sheets, frowning and looking in Sebastian’s direction.
“Why are you suddenly developing this bizarre passion for me?” she asked. “You were not even into me.”
Sebastian lay on the bed and placed his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. I mean, you had a thing for Isadora Galván.”
“I did.”
Meche tilted her head and smirked. “So is this like a stamp collection or something? Diddle all your ex-classmates and you get a prize?”
“No. I didn’t understand back then, what you meant to me. I assumed I could find the same easy feeling with many other people. But time passed, people passed and it was never quite the same. Then the other day I was walking to my mom’s place and I saw you across the street. It all just... hit me. I haven’t been able to stop feeling... I’ve felt things I haven’t felt in ages. It’s all because of you. I was so alive when I was with you. It was like... like it even hurt.”
“Sounds like a book I read,” she said. “It was shelved under ‘sappy.’”
“You didn’t feel like that about me?”
He looked at her with dark, steady eyes. Meche had to avert her gaze, sitting cautiously onto the mattress.
She remembered being a teenager, being near Sebastian, very clearly. It had been thrilling. Every single morning, walking at his side to school, their shoes dipping into puddles, their easy smiles and the easier banter. Oh, she had been so in love with him and not in the ‘sappy’ way. Not the crush a teenager has for a handsome boy, like Constantino. She loved him absolutely and if she never kissed him then—really kissed him, not whatever microsecond of a kiss they had shared—never made him her lover, it was because they had already touched more deeply than any youthful caress.
“Maybe. It was a while ago.”
“How long have you waited for someone?”
“Oh come on, you got married,” Meche said, flipping on her stomach and pressing her chin against the back of her hand. “You probably had two dozen girlfriends after that. You weren’t waiting for not
hing.”
“I have been waiting for something, always without knowing it.”
He peered at her from beneath thick eyebrows and Meche half-smiled because maybe—just maybe, this was no admission—she had walked the streets of Paris once-upon-a-time expecting to stumble onto somebody. Maybe she sat by the river and read her map and wondered if someone would turn a corner and appear there.
“God, the way you talk,” she said, trying to rub the half-smile off her face. “You didn’t spew those lines when we were young.”
He’d seen it though, recognized her mirth, and was now giving her a sly look.
“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.”
MECHE 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 a
nd 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.
“WHAT’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
ISADORA 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.”
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