The streets near the Land of the Dead's lowest levels were hardly worth walking on.
Past the somberly lit cathedrals, there wasn't much to see. Long abandoned, the derelict ruins of ancient Mesoamerican neighborhoods sprawled either side of the uneven, downward sloping paths; burnt skeletons of houses, crumbling tezontle and jagged shards of cantera, the powdered ashes of adobe. The ghostly remains were faded relics, an eternal reminder that even in this place, time was finite. Only those whose names lived on—whether gloried, or in infamy—were remembered; the rest were fated to drift closer and closer to the watery depths beneath the city until, with one final burst of golden energy, their memories were forgotten.
The few roads that weren't entirely gone were dilapidated beyond repair, slowly crumbling piece by piece. Insect alebrijes made their nests in the osteoporotic stone walls, their daub and straw structures jutting through the largest gaps. The uneven stone paths were eroded to clay and dust in some places, missing entirely in others; gaping holes were spanned with thin planks that groaned with the slightest weight. These temporary—and wholly unreliable—bridges never lasted long, hastily repaired with bent nails until they were finally more metal than wood.
Even the trolleys didn't come this far anymore. The old tracks remained, rusted with exposure and disuse until the once-gleaming metal was flaked with reddish black. Large stretches of track were missing, ripped from the ground by desperate individuals with debts to pay and nothing to lose. The wires stretched low over the lanes until, snapped by the weight of birds and animals, they dangled loose between rotting frames.
The few streetlights lining the empty roads were broken more often than not, and had been for as long as anyone could remember. The outer casings of the lowest ones were shattered in an attempt to reach the precious metal within the bulbs, shards of heavy-duty glass lying forgotten in the shallow gutters.
It didn't matter if they worked or not; the city workers weren't in any hurry to fix the remains of an empty neighborhood. The shadows of the pulsing city kept the secluded lanes in a state of perpetual gloom; the only visible lights were from the docks below. Cookstoves, open fires, lanterns, battery-operated flashlights, even strings of tealights reflected off the rippling waters, offering a glow that seemed welcoming when faced with the surrounding darkness.
The deserted structures, the broken adobe, the encroaching shadows: all were part of a strange limbo that seemed to neatly separate the worlds of the remembered and forgotten. No one ever contrived to remain in-between for long. There was only up, or down—the glowing warmth of the city, or the cool twilight of the shanties. Anyone who lingered voluntarily, who ignored the blatant dangers of the empty roads, who reveled in the eerie lack of noise… well, they were clearly up to no good.
For the first time in over fifty years, Héctor stuck out like a sore thumb.
Dancing across the broad, flat summit of one of the countless pyramids rising from the dark waters, he weaved like a drunkard to the haphazard tune spilling from his lips. He was helpless to the winding melody, an amalgamation of old songs and unfinished choruses, the result of his overflowing heart. His music was alone in the murky midnight, his soft hum vibrating against his neck vertebrae, tickling his teeth.
He leaped onto the scaffolding that wound down the pyramid's great steps, ribcage expanding as he inhaled the stale waterside scent: woodsmoke and moldy paper, algae and stagnation. The odor did little to dampen his spirits; he twirled down towards the lowest steps, voice rising into wordless la-di-das.
A fine mist wrapped around him as he descended, rising from the humid waters; beyond the stone gates surrounding Shantytown, the shapeless forms of lopsided buildings rose up to meet the barely-visible bridges spanning the heavens. The graffiti seemed colorless in the shadow, the orange wings of Los Olvidados dulled by the fog as it rolled in from whatever lay elsewhere, beyond the horizon. It spread low over littered concrete and ancient limestone alike, reaching with smoke tendrils up towards the lights of the Land above.
A drizzle fell on the shoulders of his newly repaired vest, dampening his hat until the straw brim sagged beneath the growing weight. The air sharpened, the odor of wet cloth and softened wood cutting through the dismal miasma. The boards darkened beneath him, shifting with muted creaks as his heels pressed into the meat of the planks. As dreary as it was, no amount of bad weather could bog him down now; why should he care about clouds, when all the stars he needed danced behind his closed lids?
He followed the scaffolding by muscle memory—not that he had muscles to rely on, these days. Years of trudging up and down the old pyramids were finally put to good use; he was unable to keep his eyes open as he waltzed back to the only home he'd known for decades. A weightlessness encompassed his bones until he felt as light as a feather, as steam, as a cempasúchil petal. The thin walls he'd built to keep back the hurt, cracking more with each passing Día de Muertos, seemed to be obliterated completely; emotion welled in his chest, filling him until he was floating, buoyed by the feelings he'd nearly forgotten existed.
It all felt so raw, so new, as if he were experiencing them for the first time all over again. A single embrace: something so innocent, so chaste, and yet it brought forth a bubbling wellspring that he just couldn'tcontain. He hadn't felt this… this… alive since he was a boy, patched shoes barely clinging to a rickety old trellis, hanging dazed from a window in the wake of his first kiss. It was all he could do to keep himself under control and not burst out laughing, or screaming, howling at the moon like a crazed fool.
Loco de amor.
A wild grin twisted the corners of his mouth before he could stop it, the pliable bones of his skull stretching to their limits. The old women of Santa Cecelia had their own terms for it, those all-encompassing feelings; he heard them directed at him, at allthe young suitors, plenty of times. Infatuated, they tutted to themselves, faces hidden behind fans as they stood grouped together in front of the church. Mamás, tías, even the widows. Tch, ay. Puppy love, they whispered, shaking their heads. Dios ayudanos.
Amor. He couldn't contain it any longer; tugging down his hat, he smushed his face against the crown with a muffled scream of joy. ¡Amor! ¡Amor, amor, amor! His entire being thrummed with the word from head to toe, racing through every bone until it was impossible to stand still any longer. Jamming the wet hat on his newly washed hair, he raced down the last third of the scaffolding in a dead sprint. The wood lurched beneath his bare feet, swaying precariously on its foundations with the movement.
There was a narrow staircase at the bottom of the pyramid, the kind that was far easier to go down than up. Ignoring it completely—not that he'd ever paid much attention to it before now—he threw himself over the ledge in a clumsy swan dive. His body crashed on the rocks below, scattering over the cracked stone. He laughed despite the uncomfortable feeling of the forced separation, kicking his dislocated foot to keep his femur from skidding straight into the water.
He pulled himself back together, bones scratching against the rock as they shot back towards his skull. The strength of the pull was enough to nearly bowl him over a second time, sending him stumbling with the added force; it was enough to pull him out of his lovesick reverie, staring down at his newly reformed hands in shock. Of course there was a distinct difference between willing and unwilling separation, and it had been quite a while since he'd tested the connection holding his bones together. He knew that he was being remembered, but he'd never expected… not so quickly… not so strongly….
"Oye, look!" A whistle cut through the fog, which seemed to be melting as the rain picked up. "Héctor's back!"
"Cousin Héctor!"
"¿Qué onda, primo?"
Still gazing at his hand, he barely remembered to raise his hat in greeting at he passed the first row of shanties. His feet fought for purchase on the rain-slicked slime of the lower docks, toes digging in the muck staining the boards after one too many floodwaters. He could hardly pay attention to the cheers and catcalls coming from open windows, front porches, even the adjacent docks.
The sights and sounds of Shantytown blurred around him as he wandered along, nearly in a daze as he focused on his thoughts. Sounds were thrown his way, but he only caught the odd word, nodding absently in response no matter what the question might have been. He spotted a few new faces in the regular crowd, only because they stood out against the bleak backdrop: their faces too bright, their clothes too new, their expressions too unfamiliar. It never registered that now he resembled them more than he did his own beloved familia.
He raised his face to the rain as he strolled, lost in the thoughts swirling around his mind. Raindrops splashed the inside of his skull through his sockets, forcing him to wince and blink rapidly as they spilled around his eyes like tears. He opened his mouth, catching them as they dripped down his face; the rain tasted the way he remembered, clean and pure against the muggy air.
How long had it been since he'd tasted it, or even just taken pleasure in walking through it? Not since he was a boy, surely—the familiar freshness brought memories of home, of late spring, the forest, boyhood. Standing in mud, breathing in pine sap and clover and Imelda, drinking in the sight of water sparkling on the tips of her lashes.
Imelda.
The city spires wavered like the edges of a dream in his vision, their far-off hues glowing brightly despite the rain. Blue and pink, paling as they bled together, a watercolor portrait suspended against the dark sky. Paradise, but then again…. It always did look like an unobtainable heaven from down here in the outer darkness; like the rich man, anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of the gap had no choice but to gaze up at what they couldn't have. Tonight it was even more of an Eden for she was there, hidden somewhere in the glittering lights.
Mi ángel, mi musa, mi… mi amor.
His phantom heart thumped painfully against his ribs, reaching through the mist to the zapatería and its beautiful owner. It ached for her, yearned, pined in ways he'd tried his hardest to stop feeling after that final, dreadful encounter—she'd cursed him so loudly that her neighbors had called the law to them both, his feet kicking up dust and her snarls ringing in his ears all the way back to Shantytown.
He pushed the memories away, turning from them with closed eyes; that was all in the past now, and they'd agreed to leave the past as it was. Those memories were painful, and would only spread more doubt in his mind, doubt that wouldn't benefit anyone. And besides, he'd already forgiven her for that, for everything. Maybe he'd deserved it, if for nothing more than trying to force himself on her after she'd clearly told him to leave her, and her family, alone.
"Muchacho!" Tía Kate's scowling voice rang in his ear, a well-aimed sock slapping wetly against his skull before wrapping around the gap where his nose used to be. "¡Aguas!" she rebuked sharply, peering over the edge of a half-filled clothesline; even with only one arm, she managed to put her hands on her hips while searing him to the bone—and further—with a matronly glare. "One would think you're wet enough!" she added, adjusting the upturned laundry basket keeping most of the rain off the white braid coiled around her head.
"Eh?" He glanced down, jumping in alarm when he realized he'd been two steps away from plunging off the dock and into the water already beginning to churn with the rain. Backing away, he peeled the sock from his skull and handed it over the clothesline along with a sheepish grin. "Gracias, Tía," he simpered, raising his sopping hat with cordial affection. She yanked the garment from his hand, shaking her head as she slapped it into an old washbasin filled with the rest of the soaked laundry.
"Get your head out of the clouds, boy," she snapped, sizing him up with world-weary eyes before jerking her head towards the bungalow in the distance. "Go home before you catch cold." He nodded, backing off before she found something else to lecture about. He was nearly back to the end of the docks before he heard her again, muttering angrily to the ripped coat she was trying to yank one handed off the line. "— those damned musicians, mooning about like lovelorn children."
Lovelorn? He nearly slipped off the docks again, checking himself before glancing over his shoulder hastily to make sure no one had seen. Was he truly that lovesick already?
Without thinking, the soft tune he'd been humming earlier came back to him, notes dancing behind his eyes as he sang to himself. His accompaniment spilled from glassless windows, porches made of driftwood and tin—the tinny whine of a phonograph, the wheeze of a defective radio, the busted bass of an old boombox long past its prime. Even the tired warbling of unbroken spirits, singing of love and hope in a place that knew more about despair and loss.
The world—his world—was filled to the brim with music, and for once he was glad of it.
How on earth could bones become numb? It just wasn't fair!
Héctor shivered where he stood, rubbing his hands together fretfully to create some semblance of warmth. The rain had slacked off, and in its place an icy breeze rattled the shanties and their tenants. At least he could be grateful Chicharrón had built his bungalow on a lower level; the wind was twice as bad on the upper docks, the buildings swaying precariously with nothing but studs and a prayer holding them to the rotten, ruined bridges overhead.
He cringed at the sound of his bony palms, scraping together with a jarring series of clacks as he tried to rub life back into them. The sound was horrendous, but he didn't have any better ideas. It seemed to help somewhat; maybe it was just his mind playing tricks, since there was no way he could be creating any kind of friction with his hands the way they were now. But there was no denying that feeling was seeping back into his fingers, little pinpricks of pain radiating down his knuckles.
Another blast of cold air shook the walls, whistling through the cracks and howling just outside the door. The tin roof over his head rumbled with a sound like thunder, the looser shingles clattering as they slammed against each other. March winds weren't new by any means, but after the unseasonal rain shower the dampness only made everything even colder. It didn't seem to matter whether he stood outside or in—either way, the wind literally ran right through him.
Héctor shivered harder, pulling the blanket he'd found closer around his naked form. He would have rather been dressed and covered against the wind, instead of feeling like he was wrapped in some kind of motheaten death shroud. But that couldn't be helped now; the laundry must be done while the cistern was full of clean rainwater, and the sun was shining brightly enough to dry his clothes.
There hadn't been enough time at Ceci's to scrub the dirt stains from his newly-patched clothes. But he meant to court Imelda proper, and that meant he couldn't always show up in stale clothing, no matter hownicely they looked. His wife deserved a man that could look his best no matter what, and that was exactly what she was going to get. How could he ever make a good impression on her when he was covered head to toe in Shantytown dust? He might have gotten a good scrubbing and a haircut, but that meant nothing if his clothes weren't just as clean, if not cleaner.
He knew that hot water was the first essential for clean clothes, but he was also used to living in Shantytown. Shanties burned too easily; it was dangerous to even light a match in winds like this, much less build a fire just to heat up water for laundry. He did, however, have the other two necessities: soap, and something to wash his clothes in.
Chicharrón's habit of never letting go of anything—ever—had been a double-edged sword, but Héctor had to admit that it did come in handy. He'd found the washtub shoved beneath a stack of tarp, still mostly intact and with only one big hole that he patched, outside and in, with a roll of waterproofing tape usually reserved for broken bones. Once filled, he'd dragged it into the sun with the hopes that the water might warm even with the wind rippling its crystal-clear surface. Unfortunately, he'd wished in vain; the water burned with an icy chill even after sitting hours in direct sunlight.
Soap had been harder to locate, but he'd finally struck gold in an ancient chest of drawers pushed against the bungalow's sagging northern wall. In the topmost drawer, hidden in a corner behind old magazines and a broken music box, he'd found a tiny pat of soap wrapped in a sheet of delicate tissue. It was lumpy and half-smashed, the pale surface yellowed with age and dotted with beads of rust-colored oil. But the scent—soft, powdery, slightly floral—that was what he was after.
The first whiff brought on a nearly-forgotten memory, one that came on so fast he had no way of bracing for it. He'd been young, a new father, playing his guitar for tips in the plaza day after day until he had just enough to get a pale, pretty bar of store-boughten soap. He'd meant it for Imelda, something soft and sweet for her bath, to soothe the pains and soreness that lingered after birth. But Imelda had used it on Coco instead, carefully smoothing the fragrant bubbles over her fragile skin.
Imelda's grateful smile, her soft hum as she bent over the perfumed steam of the tiny basin, holding his little girl close, the scent of milk and rosy soap and something else, something raw that lingered from her newness—
The heartache of those memories left him bent over the washtub, choked with emotion and loneliness and hurt. All those were too familiar, but now there was also something else, something harsh and angry in his chest that railed against the injusticeof it all, the rage that he was forced to exist in a shadowy half-life with only memories while his killer—his friend —had lived on for decades in his stead.
He clutched the sides of the washtub, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he stared down into the rippling water. An angry mask stared back, jaw clenched and eyes burning with indignation. His skull burned with a phantom flush, and he knew that if he'd been alive his cheeks would be mottled, nostrils flaring in rhythm with the harsh pants forcing their way out of his heaving chest. The sight left a sick taste in the back of his mouth; he thrust both hands into the frigid water, breaking up the image until nothing was left but dingy suds and wet cloth.
He took the soap in hand and began to work the rich lather into the deep purple fabric of his shirt-turned-vest. It didn't matter anyway, he decided as he scrubbed at a dark stain on the collar. He could care less if anyone recognized him as the true songwriter or not; he didn't even care if Ernesto got everything that was coming to him. Royalties, revenge—it didn't change anything that had already happened. Neither Ernesto's conviction nor any amount of money would put him on that train back to Santa Cecelia, not now.
Nothing would ever change the past; he'd come to grips with that long ago. What mattered now, he realized, was what wouldhappen. Or, he amended as he lifted the vest from the tub, what might happen. All he'd ever wanted was his family, his girls, and now they were finally within reach. He might never be able to cross the bridge, not without a photo, but Coco would come to him when her time came.
Time, that was the key word: he had time now, to wait and hope and wonder. He'd spent decades waiting; what did a few more years matter, when he knew that she was happy and loved and well cared for? He would gladly wait, and then when the time came he'd give her the biggest hug for as long as she'd let him. And Imelda, well….
His gaze rose to the sky, habitually seeking out the sparkling city, unobscured by fog. He absently wrung the water out of his vest with all his strength, water splashing from the tub to sprinkle the hem of his makeshift shroud. Spreading the nearly-black cloth flat, he left it to dry in the sun and hoped that it was passably clean; he only had soap enough for one washing.
Imelda had already come to him, in her own roundabout fashion. He didn't begrudge her for her hesitancy, though, or any reservations she had. After all, the divide between them was clear: while he had kept her memory locked in his heart for a century, she'd spent nearly as long trying to forget. I wanted to forget you—those harsh words, and the crushed tone she'd said them in, had heard far worse than anything she'd ever thrown at him.
A hundred years of heartbreak wasn't going to be changed in a matter of weeks, or even months. She deserved time to reacclimate herself to the idea of him, time to remember how they meshed, how they fit together as friends, confidants, spouses… lovers. For that, he'd gladly give her all the time he could spare, and then some, just as long as it meant he could be at her side. After all, she was his wife: his lovely, precious, gorgeous wife.
He sighed blissfully, nearly sliding face first into the water as he propped himself up on the tub's rim. All these years, all this time, and she still managed to blindside him with her stunning beauty. That matronly, dignified gray dress, the dusky ribbon in her dark hair, the cute little black boots with their silver buttonhooks and polished toes—of course, she could have worn nothing more than a tow sack and still been the most wonderful woman to ever walk the earth, living or dead.
It was still hard for him to believe that she was actually interested in entertaining his foolish, desperate attempts at a second courtship. He wasn't sure how much of it he even deserved, if any, but he wasn't the type of man to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she honestly meant to indulge his whims, he'd romance her the only way he knew how. He was confident in that, at least; it had worked once already.
He'd known from the beginning that it couldn't be a pain-free outing, not the first time. Too much was unsaid between them, too much to still discuss. Doubt and guilt had clouded the road ahead, and the weight of a hundred years' emotion kept them rooted to the spot. As painful as the resulting conversation was, when they laid their burdens in the open they were able to shoulder them as a team; only then were they able to take their first steps towards a future together.
However, knowing that it had to happen didn't mean he had looked forward to it. He couldn't stop himself from trying to shield her; in this place he might have been her husband in name only, but the innate desire to protect her still burned brightly in his heart. It had torn him apart to see the pain in her eyes, the tight twist of her smile as she tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, that it didn't hurt as badly as he knew it did.
It had taken all he had to keep his hands to himself, to stay glued to the park bench. His instinctive reaction was to touch her, to comfort her somehow; he wanted nothing more than to kiss the tears from her eyes and beg for forgiveness each time his words cut her to the quick. He knew—had known, had always known—that she was strong, that she didn't need anyone to guard her against the world. She could hold her own, but that didn't mean she should have to.
He wondered what she might have done, if he'd been unable to refuse the impulse. The only thing stopping him was a firm voice in the back of his mind, reminding him always that he mustn't touch. His ears still rang with the sound of her choked, angry voice as she passed him in the alley. Just leave me alone. Don't touch me.
Please.
It was mindboggling, how much could change in the three short weeks since that encounter. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did. His entire life had been upended on Día de Muertos; it had taken all winter for him to get back on his feet after that lifechanging tumble, ready to start fresh. His entire world, a century of assumptions and misunderstandings, had been destroyed and rebuilt in the span of five months. Three weeks was a mere drop in the bucket of his afterlife.
Maybe she wouldn't mind being touched now, but he still felt the need to keep contact to a minimum. Oh, she could touch him—he had no qualms with that. She had, all day in
fact! His forehead still tingled at the thought of her midnight blessing, a
moonlit kiss with the promise that he could have the chance he craved. And she'd held his hand yesterday because she wanted to, not because it was necessary or even required. She hadn't even complained when he slipped, forgetting himself and putting his hands on her shoulders in his hurry to distract her on the trolley.
And, of course— He smiled at his sopping trousers, heart fluttering uncontrollably in the empty gap of his torso. She, Imelda Rivera, had hugged him! Even more than that: she'd held him, just for a moment, and let him hold her in return. From the way her body had relaxed into his, once he'd managed to get over his shock and wind his arms around her, it was clear that she'd even… wanted it.
The familiarity of it had shocked him more than the act itself. His bones still thrummed with the thought of her arms around his ribcage, her soft breath tickling his sternum as she rested her head on his chest. It was a miracle that he'd managed to keep his knocking knees where they belonged, instead of slipping and letting the both of them clatter apart on the sidewalk. He knew that he would have been content to stay there forever, relishing the touch of her slender frame, and not felt the need to ask for anything beyond her favor. He'd been given more than his share already, and yet?
I had a nice time tonight.
Her quiet cadence was the same, the way it used to be back when… back when they knew each other. Not shy or bashful, but reserved. It betrayed her upbringing, the propriety that colored their lives back before they belonged to each other, the modesties that—in her mind, at least—stood between them once more. It was the voice of someone too aware of themselves, of what they wanted, and of the troubles that might arise by taking it.
A nice time, so much nicer when she was looking at him like that, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Her face was so much lovelier when she let her emotions show, unhidden behind the guise of a stern matron. She should've known already that there was no need to waste time by asking, no reason to hide behind false modesty or hidden intentions. He would have been more than happy to do anything, even bend over backwards, to make her wishes a reality.
Maybe she did know. Maybe she knew all along, maybe that's why she asked with her eyes instead of her words. And maybe she saw the answer already on his face, assured enough that her hands were steady on his chest, leaning on him, leaning up to him, lashes sliding to hide those lovely, imploring eyes—
¡Ay, mi amor! The wind did little to stop the heat in his face, a prickling fire in his cheekbones. He pressed the wet cloth of his trousers to his face, breathing in the scent of water and soap and something faintly stale, despite his best efforts. The water dripped down into his ribcage, wicking into the old blanket until he felt little circles of ice against his bones. Sighing, he spread the pinstripes out to greet the sun as well before bundling himself into a corner to wait.
Maybe it was better that they'd been interrupted, after all. He was starting to have serious doubts about the limits of his self-restraint.
Alebrijes can sense fear, can't they? Or was that bears? Dios mío, what if it's part bear?
Héctor gulped, pressing against the main gate of the Rivera family courtyard; the iron bars bit into his ribs through his vest, holding the brunt of his weight as he leaned away from the giant alebrije lounging on the main walk. The zapatería was less than fifty paces away, but to get there he had no choice but to walk past this amalgamation of man-eaters.
Why was luck always against him? What unfortunate ancestor had gotten the family name cursed with ill-favored fortune? Every time he thought life was looking up, something like this happened. Not that he had a problem with alebrijes, even big ones; they were spirit guides, after all, and the bonds they held with their humans ran deeper than those of mere pets. But this wasn't just an alebrije, this was Imelda's alebrije. He remembered the roar that shook the cenote until water rained from the rocks above, the glistening fangs, the big… sharp claws—
To reach the shoe shop, he'd have to bypass the creature one way or the other. He clenched the bars in his fingers, taking deep, slow breaths as he wracked his brain for some kind of plan. Calling for help was out of the question; the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself, and Imelda by proxy. If he couldn't hold his own against a sunbathing alebrije, what kind of use was he as a husband?
Running was the next viable option, but he quickly discarded that too. Experience had taught him that running from things—be it man or beast—usually entailed a chase. He wasn't the best sprinter by any means, and he had no doubts that if it pounced it would catch him within seconds. The only other option was to face it head-on, and hope that he could somehow see an attack coming and devise some way to protect himself from it. Animals were subdued by bravery, right?
Forcing himself to let go of the bars, he took a tentative step forward and felt his way onto the cobbled footpath, unwilling to look away from the alebrije; they were mysterious creatures, and for all he knew this one could move faster than the speed of sound. He froze when his bare foot clacked loudly against stone, too loud to be unnoticed. His heart sank into his stomach as the massive head rose, yellow eyes blinking curiously before narrowing as it stared him down.
"Ahaha…." The sound stuck in his throat, choked with trepidation. "Ah—um—ahem, hi." He grinned nervously, quaking under the steady gaze of the enormous beast. "You remember me, right? Héctor? I—uh—I caught a nice view of the city from your tail not long ago… yeah?"
The jaguar didn't reply, neither growl nor mewl escaping the wide, split mouth. Its whiskers flared, nose twitching as it sniffed the air before settling, sphinxlike, onto its front paws. It seemed content to just watch him, the way a housecat watches an insect crawling just out of reach. He was nothing more than a cricket: insignificant, dispensable… easily caught.
"Y-y-you remember me, don't you?" he stammered, trying to placate the alebrije with as calm a tone as he could muster. "Y-y-y-you're a good kitty, a nice kitty, a sweet kitty," he continued, as if he could will it into submission with his voice alone. Another slow step and the beast's ears swiveled towards him, dwarfed beneath huge, curling horns. Its eyes dilated, tail swishing slowly as it considered him.
"I'm just going to walk by now, no trouble." He cleared his throat again, taking another three steps in quick succession. The faster he walked, the faster it would be over. Fast walking wasn't running, after all. It wasn't even jogging.
Before he could take another step, his toes caught a jagged gap in the path; his weaker, healing leg buckled under the added weight and he went stumbling, nearly trodding on one of the alebrije's massive paws. He caught himself just before he hit the ground, gasping as he came eye-to-nose with the creature. He could feel the hot breath on his skull, the fur rippling as its muscles tensed.
What little bravado he had left him, his limbs jellified when face to face with the creature. Those paws were so large, the claws had to be the length of his forearm, if not longer. They'd be easily able to rend through flesh… or bone. If it decided to strike, he would have no forewarning, and no way to dodge the blow. His eyes met the feline's and he trembled, woozy with fear.
The cat blinked once, slowly, and before he could react the head bent towards him. He let out an unmanly squeak of terror, cowering away from the blow that was sure to come, the fangs that could crush his skull to pieces. He waited, breath held, eyes scrunched tight—and promptly opened them again as hot air blew the bangs from his face.
"Huh?" The cat sniffed him, paused, and then huffed hard enough to blow the hat from his head. It regarded him, whiskers twitching, tilting its head to get the best view of him as it loomed. The wings unfurled slowly, feathers ruffling to stir the dust on either side of the walkway. "See?" he managed weakly. "I knew you'd remember me." Another slow blink was his answer, the dark pupils holding him in their depths.
Without thinking, he reached up towards the fibral whiskers, the shortest ones filament thin yet still longer than his entire arm. They flinched from his fingers, the wide cheek twitching as they flattened towards its neck. A deep sound vibrated the air and, fearing it to be a growl, he recoiled. However, the giant head moved to bump against his arm, then his torso, nearly bowling him over backwards as it rubbed the length of its jaw against his vest. The low sound continued to rattle the ground under his feet, a rhythmic hum that he finally recognized to be a purr.
"Well," he breathed, awestruck as the alebrije repeated the motion forcefully. He took the initiative—the thinly-veiled demand, rather—and rubbed his hand over the exposed cheek before burying his fingers in the soft fur beneath its chin. He rubbed, then scratched, first with one hand and then both as a shower of multicolored fur floated in the air around him.
"Heh," he chuckled, feeling the purr vibrating his entire body from the arms down. "You're nothing more than an overgrown housecat, aren't you? Good kitty, what a good kitty cat—" The alebrije seemed to expect this kind of talk, eyes closing lazily as it occasionally continued to bump into him with the entirety of its forehead, in what was clearly some kind of affectionate gesture.
After a moment it turned, flopping onto its back hard enough that the zapatería windows rattled in their panes. It stretched, offering an open invitation to its broad stomach, and looked at him expectantly. He obliged, stroking as far down its neck as he could without having to crawl on top of it. The paws he'd feared moments ago rose to knead the air, claws—he'd not underestimated their length after all—glinting in the sun.
"Good kitty," he murmured, the words still flowing unbidden from his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he'd petted anything with fur; even Miguel's pelón dog wasn't soft and fluffy like this alebrije. "Good girl, sweet girl, sweet kitty—"
"Pepita is a cat." He nearly leapt out of his trousers at the unexpected voice, fisting two handfuls of orange belly fur. The purring, steady as ever, had filled his head enough to drown out the sound of any approaching feet. He turned, guilty, hands thrust behind his back. "She is a cat," Imelda repeated sharply. "Not a… 'kitty'."
"Oh." His heart quickened at the sight of her standing within reach, her arms crossed beneath a handwoven shawl. He moved to embrace her, stopping only when he saw her attention wasn't even directed at him any longer. She was looking at her alebrije—Pepita, what a cute name for something so giant—and shaking her head in clear disapproval.
"Aren't you ashamed?" she fussed, staring down the large cat as it rolled back onto its stomach. Pepita regarded her coolly, digging little grooves in the earth as she continued to knead. Trilling, she turned back to Héctor and, in one fell swoop, licked him from calves to scalp. He gasped at the sandpapery tongue, warm and scratchy; it lifted him off his feet, knocking the wig sideways on his skull. "Clearly not."
"Good kitty," he cooed, ignoring Imelda's huff as he buried his face in the thick, silky smooth fur on Pepita's chest. "You tell your mamá: we're the best of friends, right?" His voice was muffled, mouth full of downy underfur. "I can call you whatever I like, can't I? Kitty, kitty, kitty." The loud purring was answer enough for him. I could get used to this, he thought absently, a fondness already growing for the amiable alebrije. Maybe I can fly on her back proper, next time.
"Do you plan on coming inside sometime today, or are you just going to stay out here with the cat?" Imelda snapped, hands on her hips. A small part of him rejoiced at her brusque tone; it was so much easier for him if she treated him the same way she treated everyone else—clipped, concise, with no tiptoeing or overcoddling. It gave him free reign to be himself, to match her brevity with his natural lightheartedness. He obediently untangled himself from Pepita's fur, stroking her one last time before regarding his wife.
"Not jealous of your own cat, are you?" he couldn't help but tease. She tensed, eyes widening, before tightening her jaw with a huff reminiscent of her spirit guide. He couldn't hide his grin at the sight; something in the way she held her mouth when he teased her always managed to make him smile. Maybe it annoyed her, but at the same time she clearly enjoyed being the center of his attentions. They both knew it to be true, even if she would never admit to it.
"Of course not!" Pepita's twitching tail buffeted her dress, showing a flash of white underskirts; she stepped away, snatching the fabric out of reach. "I don't know how you come up with your crazy notions." Because you're the one to make me crazy, mi amor.
"Don't worry," he added, unable to stop himself. "I'll make sure to pet you first next time."
"Stop talking nonsense!" Her eyes blazed at him, daring him to try something fresh; it did little to deter his thoughts from going on a tangent. He'd been more frightened of the purring jaguar at his side than he'd ever been of that fiery gaze, even before they were married. Feeling bold, he reached out and playfully stroked over the silver stripes at her crown.
Whether it was the sun, the force holding her together, or something else entirely, her hair was warm. He lingered much longer than he meant to, fingering the smooth, soft strands and careful to keep from tugging them out of her impeccable twist. So much for keeping your hands to yourself, he scolded mentally, but allowed himself a reprieve when she didn't immediately brandish her shoe.
The touch softened her scowl, annoyance melting as she unwittingly leaned into the weight of his hand. The moment stretched, tightening between them as he waited for her to speak, to brush him off and scold him for being so forward in his advances. But she did neither, instead just staring at his neckerchief with an indefinable expression stuck somewhere between enjoyment and confusion.
"Well?" She raised her eyes to his, voice soft. It had been much easier to lock eyes with Pepita; hers filled him to the brim, heart hammering violently against his ribcage. Had he not been able to see the fingerbones resting demurely on her dark hair he might have been convinced of a fleshy body, of actual organs that were, right now, twisting knots in his gut.
As they watched each other, he became painfully aware of a tension between them, hesitant put palpable. He stiffened, unwilling to look away even as thoughts of Sunday evening filled his mind. What would she do if he just kissed her right now, in broad daylight, in the middle of the yard? Would she even stop him if he pulled her close, tracing the ferns on her cheekbones with his fingertips? She was willing enough two days ago, but now?
Almost as if she read his mind, her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth and back. Mouth dry, he tried to swallow and felt each bone as his vertebrae slid clunkily. Her lips parted and he barely stopped himself from leaning in, hoping that he didn't look too eager. A car door slammed and they both jumped, his hand flying guiltily back to his side as she averted her eyes with a cough.
"Don't just stand there," she said, her voice oddly breathless. She turned, suddenly busy with smoothing the leather apron at her waist. "It's not like I'm not busy, and it's chilly out here. There's plenty enough to do without standing around like a couple of fools." He dipped, picking his hat off the ground and shaking the worst of the fur and dust from its floppy brim. Pepita batted at the strands as they fell, tail swishing before she walked off to flop in the house's shade.
"Lead the way," he croaked, trying to think of something else to say, something witty that might capture the earlier mood. She spun on her heel before he could come up with a good joke, stalking to the front of the zapatería with shoulders thrown back and hands clenched at her sides. Even from the back, he could see that nervous energy, not anger, guided her actions. He swallowed, more than a little nervous himself, and hurried up the walk after her.
"We'll be at the table, not the shop," she informed him tersely, talking over her shoulder without breaking her stride. "We're working on a larger order right now. The last thing I need is for them to be distracted." He wasn't sure if she meant with you or by you; either one was damning enough. He didn't bother trying to argue, following meekly as they stepped through the darkened entrance.
The shop was a flurry of activity, more than he was used to seeing in the few short months he'd been visiting the family. Normally his presence was enough to pause, if not stop production, but today he was virtually ignored as the rest of the Riveras were lost amidst a sea of shoes. Imelda weaved through the makeshift workstations with practiced ease, shooting him a warning glance over her shoulder before rounding the curve of the staircase and disappearing through the archway on the opposite side of the room.
He hesitated—not from mischief, or disobedience, but to let his rapidly blinking eyes adjust to the fainter light. His nose filled with the warm, earthy scent of fresh leather that permeated the entire room, tempered by the acrid tang of rubber cement and the faintest metallic whiff of motor grease. Dust swirled in the corners, stirred by the breeze of skirts and aprons, illuminated in the open windows.
Whatever Imelda had told them on Sunday—if anything—he had clearly been expected today. There were no exclamations of surprise, no confused glances or outright gawking stares; in fact, the family was really too busy to even bother with him as they worked with a pace that was efficient, if not exactly neat. The twins acknowledged him first; they spared him a cursory nod, smiling absently in greeting as they sorted loose soles by the pairs and stacked them on the workbench.
"Hola, Papá Héctor!" Rosita called as she waved from a table in the corner, fingers wiggling around the handle of a stiff polishing brush. A stack of strange looking shoes sat stacked higher than her head; behind her was a wall of cardboard boxes, each bearing the Rivera logo along with notes about the size, owner, and model of the shoe written neatly by hand. Victoria didn't glance away from her sewing machine, eyes narrowed in focus over the rims of her square glasses; her deft fingers guided two pieces of leather beneath the rapid-fire needle, stitching them together in a perfect line.
Julio was the only one to stop what he was doing, pale gaze cryptic over the thick bush of his mustache. They looked at each other with curious detachment; Héctor felt the need to say something, but every greeting that ran through his mind felt too forced, or too sharp, or too harsh. He couldn't help but think of what Imelda told him, in the park; this was the man who married his daughter, who shook the wedding altar with his trembling.
It was almost too bizarre, his mind trying in vain to wrap around the concept. It warped the image of Coco in his mind, turning her from familiar toddler into some vague woman shape, a faceless bride-to-be draped in white. He remained quiet, his eyes dropping to the shoe in Julio's calm hands. It was another one of those strange designs, half of the sole hanging limp, unnailed from the rest.
"What kind of order is it?" he asked, just to break the silence.
"Bowling shoes," Julio answered, turning the shoe carefully in his hands until it was sole up. He angled it for Héctor to see over the workbench. "A bowling league put in an order for fifteen pairs, all custom made. You see," he continued, with the air of an enthused specialist, "the soles of bowling shoes are made to slip. The league asked us to customize them to slip only on one side, based on whether the wearer is righthanded or lefthanded."
"Héctor!" Imelda reappeared in the archway, mouth pursed. "In here, please." Her expression already accused him of wrongdoing, getting in the way while they were trying to do their job. She was right; with fifteen pairs of different shoes—or soles, at least—they didn't need him hanging around and breathing over their shoulders.
The sewing machine stopped, a silver pair of scissors catching light from the window as Victoria snipped the leather free. She smoothed the ends flat, looking over her work in satisfaction before noticing that she was being observed. Her browbone slowly arched, waiting for him to say something, and he realized he was gaping. Apologetically he lifted his hat to her, jumping when he saw something of Imelda in the answering wry smile. He managed to address them all in the sweep of his arm, jamming the hat back on his head before practically running through the arch.
He'd never been past the workshop before, always standing patiently while they gave excuse for Imelda's absence. He didn't dare linger, although his curiosity was piqued by flashes of what he could see from the corner of his eye: a bookshelf and mirror jammed beneath the staircase, the sight of a sofa and lamp in another open room, a small arrangement of blossoms hanging from the upper railing.
He followed Imelda into a smallish dining room, where the odors of the workshop were replaced by something delicious; he stopped in his tracks, breathing deeply as the familiar aroma filled him from the inside out. He'd have recognized that scent anywhere: Imelda's own special recipe for caldo de pollo, simmering somewhere just out of sight. His mouth watered at the memory, sudden yearning tugging at a place behind his ribs. When was the last time he'd filled his belly with a hot, homecooked meal?
The dining room was clearly the center point of family life outside the zapatería, but from first glance it was hard to put his finger on just how he knew. The table took up the majority of the room, an odd assortment of chairs shoved at intervals around its four sides. There was a shelf in the corner that sagged under its weight of knickknacks, books, odds and ends that had no real home and were left to gather dust until needed. Someone had tacked a wire hanger onto the wall above the shelf, the kind that he'd seen before in offices; it was stuffed to the brim with loose papers and receipts.
One chair had been recently vacated, standing pushed against the wall. An account ledger was on the table, held open by a pencil and weighted at the corner with an antique bookkeeping machine. Imelda sat down before it, smoothing her skirts before pulling herself up to the table and closing the ledger. She placed it and the machine to the side, pointing wordlessly with her pencil to a chair across the table.
Casting his eyes around the room, Héctor hung his hat on the backrest of the nearest chair. He adjusted his vest with both hands, looking ruefully at the chair she'd suggested—well, perhaps ordered was a better word for it. He'd hoped to be a little closer to her than that. After all, he was more than a client, wasn't he? He was walking a thin line as it was, but the leftover hope from Sunday, combined with her demeanor in the yard, filled him with a measure of confidence.
He decided to take a chance, playing the only game he knew he excelled at: loopholes. He took the chair she'd pointed out, but instead of sitting down he slid it from beneath the table and dragged it behind him, ignoring the squeal of wooden legs on tile.
"Héctor!" she admonished, leaning away as he shoved the chair on her right to the corner of the table. He wiggled his own chair into the space he made, thanking his lucky stars that he was blessed with naturally thin bones. He sat down, scrunching in the tiny gap so that his knee was pressed against her right hip. She glared, mouth working as she looked from him to the chair, across the table and back again.
"Are you ready to start?" he asked, pretending nothing had happened. He knew it was enough to bait her into a response, and he quietly congratulated himself when she geared up for a retort. A peculiar emotion flashed in her eyes, fingers drumming on the leather-bound face of the closed ledger.
"I meantfor you to be over there," she said coldly. He nearly laughed at the mental image of how she used to look when she used that tone, nostrils flared and brows furrowed over her nose. Exasperated, that was the word for it.
"But the light is better here," he excused himself, angling so that the glow from the adjoining kitchen helped to illuminate the table. "I can see more easily this way." She let out a low huff before scooting to the left, adjusting her chair so that there was a hand's breadth between their bodies. "Now, can I see my boots?"
"Don't be silly," she quipped, drawing a pair of oval reading glasses from her apron pocket. She slipped them on, sliding them up with the edge of her thumb as she reached for a roll of papers held tight with a rubber band. "The designs will have to be stitched on before they're assembled. You're just here to look over the concepts." She was all business as she eased off the band, flattening the thick sheets out as best she could.
"Oh… I thought—" His heart sank as he glanced over the papers in confusion; he'd been looking forward to seeing the boots themselves, to watch her create something from a few scraps of leather and a vision. He'd wanted to be able to envision them on his feet. What does it matter? he thought irritably, chiding himself for his downheartedness. Just enjoy the moment for what it is, idiot! He fell quiet, hands gripping his knees beneath the table.
"I just need to show me what you like best, out of these styles. I had a few ideas in mind, but of course I can't put everything I think up on a shoe. And they're yours, after all." She tapped the papers into a neat pile and slid the stack over to him. When he didn't immediately take them she frowned, jerking her hands away and busying them in her apron. "Well, what's the matter? Go on."
"So you mean… you mean I can choose what they'll look like, once they're done?" He felt a bubble of eagerness, scooting closer the table and fingering the edges of the rough-hewn paper.
"No," she snipped; although she didn't repeat herself, he could still hear the imperative in her voice. Don't be silly. "You can choose what elements you like, and then I'mgoing to make the final design. You won't see it again until I'm through." She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully over her frames. "I have something in mind already," she admitted. "I just wanted—that is, if you have a problem with it—"
"No, no problem!" he answered quickly, rocking his hips back and forth on the chair. "No problem at all. I trust you."
"Well, go on then. Take a look." She grabbed the pencil, rolling it between her fingers and tearing a scrap of paper from the back of her ledger to scribble notes on. "Let me know which ones you like. You don't have to choose something on every page."
Spreading the papers, he shuffled through them curiously. They were filled with penciled drawings, blocked off in ruler-precise squares; the designs themselves were sketched in a rough hand, unpracticed yet with an attention to detail that amazed him. He was no artist himself—the best he could accomplish was small doodles, often for children's amusement—but anyone looking at the pages could see the amount of time and effort that went into each square.
"You… you made these?"
"Hmm? The designs? Sí." Maybe she was only modest, but she seemed indifferent to her own talent. He could see that she didn't think much of it; still, he couldn't help but be impressed.
"Imelda, these are amazing!" He flipped through the pages again, soaking up the swirls, the geometric lines, the stars and suns, fleurs-de-lis, flowering vines and broad-leaved trees. "Look at these, ¡qué talento! I didn't know you could draw like this!" She looked taken aback, mouth falling open as his voice rose in admiration. "Where did you learn to do this?"
"I don't—I didn't—they're just lines," she stammered, both pleased and embarrassed by his praise. "I didn't learn it anywhere. I just draw what I think about, things that I enjoy and—I don't know," she finished helplessly. "Just tell me which ones you like the best."
"All of them."
"Héctor! Choose!" She tapped the pages for emphasis. "There's a system to this. If you want me to make all the choices for you, you can just—ugh, give them here." She reached for the papers, scowling when he held them out of reach. "Héctor Rivera," she warned, voice low.
"No, I'll choose," he placated, holding them safe before smoothing out the crease he'd accidentally made on the topmost page. He shuffled through them again, admiring all of the drawings individually; she fidgeted in her seat, foot tapping a harsh staccato as he took his sweet time.
He pretended not to notice her impatience, wanting to prolong the moment. The longer he took, the longer he had reason to stay in her home, at her side. The sunny room was pleasantly warm, the soup's enticing aroma adding to the drowsy afternoon atmosphere that seemed to stretch, indefinite. The hum of activity from the other room couldn't pierce the bubble that seemed to form around them, the only movement a lazy flick from his thumb as he perused the designs, flipping the pages like a book in his fist.
He finally settled on a square of densely packed ferns, reminded of the yellow leaves on her cheekbones. Everything from the thin stalks to the tiny veins painstakingly etched onto each leaf astounded him, drawn with a quiet, subdued patience that he didn't possess.
"This one I like best." He pointed them out, one finger tracing the curve of the fern around and around the square. If he wanted to think about her, be reminded of her, he'd just have to look down and see the stitched ferns smiling at up at him from his feet. "This, and… this one." It was a wilder tangle of swirls, looping over and over again on each other in a pattern that seemed chaotic at first glance, but on closer inspection was startlingly methodical.
That's me, that's the two of us. Together forever, on my boots. Maybe she could somehow combine the two, wild ferns growing everywhere—he wondered if she would catch the allusion, but if she noticed anything she said nothing about it. Instead, she seemed to wait for something else; when he went to hand the papers back, her browbone jumped.
"Only the two?" She made a face. "You can choose more than that."
"These are…." Perfect. "What I like." He grinned, heart thumping erratically behind his breastbone. "Everything else I'll leave to you; you know what will look best."
"But—I mean, if you're sure. They're your boots," she repeated, shrugging as she took the stack back from him and began curling them up again. He watched her keenly as she worked, rolling her pencil idly back and forth over a groove in the table.
The afternoon light caught the angles of her skull, darkening a thin shadow beneath her cheekbone while softening the curve of her chin. The leaves on her cheek glittered gold, the lilac petals a shimmering line above her sockets. Now that he had the gift of idle time, to just look at her, he could see that the lilac was outlined in a softer shade of green, like the tailfeathers of an exotic bird.
Everything about her markings seemed orderly, elegant; even the intricate swirls on the crest of her forehead seemed as though they had a purpose. It looked as if she could have painted those markings on herself, while he'd just been splashed with a few buckets of leftover paint. He absently touched his chin, rubbing the spirals above his goatee.
"They're filling back in, I see."
"Huh?" She snapped the rubber band around the reformed roll, testing its strength with her thumb before propping against the bookkeeping machine.
"The colors?" Her eyes rose to his forehead, lingering as she searched for something in the faded marks. "You haven't noticed?" So it was noticeable, then? His fingers rose self-consciously, touching the faint edges of the purple arrows, the yellow accents, the single green leaf.
"Really?" She nodded. "Oh… I guess I never thought about it." He didn't look at himself in mirrors often; they weren't a staple in Shantytown, and he'd stopped noticing his own shabby reflection in storefronts or fountain basins long ago. He'd known his skull markings were fading, only because it was a commonplace occurrence among the Forgotten. Poor Chicharrón's bright colors had been completely gone when he passed, drained along with the last of his energy.
"Well, they are." She tried to look at something besides him, eyes trailing restlessly over the lopsided shelving, his askew hat perched precariously on the chair, her own hands flat on the worn surface of the table. "You look like a half-finished watercolor painting."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Not—no." He smiled, resting his chin on one hand as he watched her struggle with her words. She'd always been cute when she was flustered; it was amazing that somehow so much had changed… and yet so little. Turning his mind back to his face, he resolved to look at himself in a mirror the first chance he got.
It shouldn't have surprised him, the fact that the colors were returning. After all, his bones were healing, the ties holding them together were stronger: he was remembered now. It only made sense that the color would flood him along with the life that memories brought to his body. He may never have Ernesto's white glow, or even Imelda's pearly sheen, but he could always be colorful. The notion was strangely satisfying, and he ruminated on it with a dreamy smile.
"Héctor!" He blinked, startled, and realized that Imelda had been talking while he was off in his own thoughts. "Honestly," she sighed. "What goes on in that head of yours? You'd try a saint's patience, the way you get lost in the clouds."
"Sorry, sorry!" he cringed. "I was just thinking about you, that's all." Her brows arched, and he hurried to correct himself. "Your bones, I mean." They arched higher. "No, wait! Not like that, I mean—never mind." Change the subject, Héctor, change it quick— "A-anyway, it must have taken you a long time to draw all those," he stammered, pointing to the rolled papers with a shaking finger. "They're all so detailed."
"I didn't draw them all at once, if that's what you're asking." She frowned, but let the matter drop. "I just did them when I had the time." She took off her glasses, folding them carefully and stowing them back in her apron pocket before smoothing the ruffled hair near her temples. "It didn't interfere with my work, so don't worry." He wasn't sure why he would worry about something like that, unless she thought his statement was the result of a guilty conscience.
"Even so, that's a lot of work for just one pair of boots," he mused. "I can see why you said—" He stopped, mouth clamping shut as alarm bells rang in his mind. For once in your life, Héctor Rivera, you better shut up! But it was too late; she'd heard him.
"Said what?"
"Nothing."
"No, what did I say?" Her eyes narrowed. "Go on, tell me."
"I was just going to say…." He closed his eyes, trying to formulate some excuse and finding to his horror that he couldn't think of anything. Cornered, he resolved himself to his fate and let the truth come out instead. "I can see why you said that… that someone could spend many hours thinking of the person they're making them for." Despite the cool, unchanging nature of bone he could still tell exactly when she blushed; right now she was red from head to toe, he wa sure of it.
"I didn't mean me!" she hissed, rubbing her cheeks as though trying to banish the heat she felt there. "I just meant the children! Not me."
"The children aren't making me boots," he pointed out. "You are."
"I know that, but—"
"Boots for someone that… that you like?" Love was too much, at least right now. No matter what he felt, what he told himself internally, she still needed time.
"It's only because you said you'd have blisters," she sniffed, the words lacking bite. "And… besides, you need something covering your feet. As absentminded as you are, I'm surprised you haven't lost a toe already."
"Aww, Imelda! You care!" She rolled her eyes, turning away as he slid forward along the table. "You do like me, after all."
"What kind of—" She stopped short, seeing the mischievous twinkle in his smile. "Don't tease," she grumbled instead, glaring through her lashes.
"It's not my fault. I can't help that you're so—"
"So what?" Her mouth twitched.
"So beautiful?" He deserved that second eye roll, grin widening at her annoyance. "Feisty, then." That was true, even if she scoffed at the term. He leaned even closer, noting happily that she was too caught up in his spiel to bother putting more distance between them. He draped his arm over the back of her chair, dangerously close to having it around her shoulders proper. "So…."
"Yes?" He could feel the familiar pull of the same earlier tension, thick enough that he could have easily pressed into it, smothered in it. It was clear that she felt it too; the knot in his stomach reformed as he sat there, or maybe it had never left. Either way, the realization left him shaking in his seat. He wanted to stand up, to run… somewhere, he didn't know where. But Imelda was sitting before him, and she demanded an answer. He had to obey.
"Teasable." She chuckled, hot air fluttering against his chin. He melted on the spot, fusing to the chair as the rest of the world faded into the background. Why couldn't it just be the two of them, with no one else to worry about? No family, no obligations, no outside influences: just him, and her, and the table, and eternity?
"Héctor, you're—" She shook her head. "You just don't know when to stop, do you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, sending a bolt of energy straight down his spine. It settled into every nerve, raising hair he no longer had as his poor dead heart thumped in vain.
"Never did." He was waiting for her brothers, for the slamming door, for the universe to meddle with his affairs yet again. Nothing happened; that alone shocked him more than anything that was happening between them. He could hardly believe it. He might actually, just once, get the chance he'd been waiting a century for?
"Imelda." She had to tell him. He had to know, he needed to know that he wasn't going to be overstepping any boundaries, any secret line she'd drawn without his knowledge. He needed to know that she wanted this, that she wanted him, that he didn't have to worry about stopping himself; he didn't think he could at this point, not unless she was strong enough to stop them both. "Imelda?"
"Yes…." He had no way of knowing if she understood what he was trying to ask, or if she was just answering him the only way she knew how. He could only go by the soft haze in her half-lidded eyes, the lack of recoil when his fingers found her chin. Ay, dios…. If he didn't do something, and now, he was going to implode.
She'll stop me, he tried to assure himself, saving what little self-control he still possessed for an emergency. She'll stop me, she's got to. He moved to cup her jaw, savoring the feeling of being able to do so again; it was a little harsher than he remembered, more angular, but what did that matter? It still fit perfectly into the cradle of his palm.
He tilted her face up, watching her lashes slide closed as she let out a shaky breath. There was warmth in her expression, and trust, and no sign of the hesitancy he was banking on. Stop me, Imelda. I can't stop myself. There was a certain nobility in kissing her forehead, or her cheek, or maybe even the place where her adorable little nose used to be. Somewhere he might have kissed her if her mother was there; her family was just in the next room, after all. He ought to be the gentleman, the kindhearted, proper man who saved his beloved from the threat of impropriety.
He didn't want to be a gentleman.
Stop me, he urged her. Lightly, carefully, his lips touched hers in the faintest caress, not even a proper kiss. Stop me, Imelda. She gasped against his mouth. Please, stop me before I make a mistake. Her lips barely parted as he brushed them in the gentlest kiss he could imagine, fingers trembling against her jaw hard enough to rattle. Why aren't you stopping me?
"Mi amor…."
She called me amor! He wasn't unable to think, to move, to understand; all he could do was feel. Feel the hand shyly exploring his ribs through the fabric of his vest, feel the mouth chastely moving against his own in a way so familiar it made his heart ache. She was savory and bitter all at once, caldo de pollo and lipstick.
He broke away, panting slightly as lungs he didn't have burned. His eyelids were too heavy to bother with opening, unable to do anything as her fingers found his necktie and tugged him back with a smothered mewl. Emotions flared to life within him at the contact, a need that tore its way up his throat to emerge in a barely muffled groan.
Stop, he managed weakly, restraint trembling on already weakened foundations. Her family, your family is in the other room and you're kissing her like it was a back alley, not a dining room—he couldn't stop, though, not when he wanted to find his way upstairs, to draw her into a secluded place, to run with her until he found somewhere they could be alone. He wanted, he wanted… he wanted.
That's it, he thought hazily, somewhere between deciding how to deepen a kiss with no tongue and plotting the best way to get her out of the chair and onto his lap as soon as possible. That's what it was, I remember now. It was desire, hidden behind modesty, tangled up hand in hand with love. He wanted her.
The world could have ended, he could have been Forgotten, he could have woken up out of the best dream of his afterlife, he could have woken up at home, alive, in the warm comfort of his own bed. Any number of things could have happened to him while he sat there, but none of it would have mattered. All that mattered was that she kept kissing him.
That she didn't stop.
Afterword: guess who's back? back again? 🎵
Hey everyone! Happy Coco one-year anniversary! Trust me, I was not saving this chapter for the one year; then again, it's amazing to me that I've been working on this chapter since the beginning of April. I really can't believe it's already Thanksgiving week… where did the year go? They say time flies when you're having fun…. or doing work
Anyway, I hope this "little" chapter is enough of a prolonged apology for letting this story fall by the wayside for as long as I did. Trust me when I say that it was unintentional, and I don't plan on it happening again. Please enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!