Imelda tries to avoid him.
It was easier in life, for back then all she had to do was get rid of things that reminded her of him. She never actually had to worry about coming face-to-face with him, because he was nowhere near her in those times.
But now that she's dead, it's harder. Because he's dead, too. And even this massive afterlife city that sprawls bigger than Santa Cecilia will ever reach, he always seems to find her, and she will always be forced to turn away from him. It's either that or smack his face. And neither option is one Imelda has a problem with anymore.
Every time she sees him, especially if he has that battered guitar with him, Imelda's temper with start to flare. She might see him talking animatedly with friends, or buying pieces of candy from one of the marcket stalls, or by himself the city square just like she first saw him, leaning up against the bench he's in just enough so that the water from the fountain sprinkles his face and hair, always with that relaxed smile on his face.
He might notice her, and then he'll wave and greet her in that way of his, then the grin on his stupid face will fade when she just stands there or, more often than not, glowers in his direction.
It gets Imelda every time: how dare he speak to her after what he did? She refuses to talk to him, or give him her affection, or do anything bu cross her arms and glare. Or she'll chase after him, his startled yelps sounding just like they did in her dream from many nights before.
He's relentless; Imelda will give him that much. And she never hated that side of him more than she does now.
Two particular days stick out to her the most.
One took place on Día de los Muertos. Imelda had been waiting in line for her permission to cross over to the Land of the Living, trying not to dwell on the fact that it was an unusually cold night and that all she was wearing was her signature purple dress. The line had come to an abrupt halt and Imelda was peering over the heads and shoulders of complaining people, barely supressing her shivers.
That's when she saw the problem.
Two security guards had charged to the front and were dragging away a very unpleased victim-- Héctor. He was struggling against their grasps and shouting accusations as they pulled him away. He locked eyes with her briefly, his own eyes flashing, then turned and finally stopped flailing, going limp in his carriers' arms and dipping his head low.
The other event took place twenty days after. Imelda was closing up shop for the night, putting all the supplies back in their places and hanging her shoemaker's apron back on its designated hook. She paused to look out the window at the multicolored lights of the city and the movement of people below the buildings and ignored how much she wanted Héctor by her side to enjoy the view.
Just as she turned the shop lights off, something sailed in from her window-- Imelda heard the loud hiss-- and hit her in the back of her head. She fell to the ground and looked at the strange objects that had knocked her. They were a bag of assorted candies, all her favorite, six marigolds, and a note-- I apologize for that.-- in Héctor's handwriting. Imelda felt her usual anger, but also a weird feeling of joy that disgusted her when it registered. Imelda debated over if the note he left was referring to his overall mistake or the scene from a few weeks ago. Briefly she thought of how Héctor loved making shows of his apologies sometimes, just like this time.
Before she let it take over her, though, she huffed, rolled her eyes, and crumpled the paper and the flowers, tossing them into the trash bin by the door. Then she tossed the candy bag out the window, inwardly apologizing when it sounded like it had hit someone in the head. Then she stormed out of the workshop and toward the main house, slamming the door behind her and not leaving for the rest of the day.
Those two days remain in her mind always, along with a few others that are less important but still very vivid in her memory. And still, every time Imelda sees him, or gets hit (both literally and not) with one of his gifts, that feeling nags at her, the feeling of disgust, rage, and strange happiness always there with her with even the slightest memories or briefest contact with him.