He's always at Mariachi Plaza.
Hidden in the folds of her shawl, lingering beside the grocer's, she watches. Her twin brothers play nearby, uninterested in the object of her affections. They are too busy to be interested, too young to care. So long as she is distracted, they can roam free: beyond that crucial point, nothing else matters. That alone makes it worth both the poignant sighs and her flaring, frustrated tempers.
She never names him in her mind—he is him, that man, the one who stole her heart… who breaks it daily. Tall, built of lean muscle with angled features: sharp cheekbones, strong nose. His gaze is intelligent, his hair messy and smile messier. That smile sends her heart into anxious flutters every time, palms sweating and face burning as though she stood directly before a hearth.
Even from this distance, her eyes pinpoint singular features. The dark hair on his exposed arms, the slope of his neck as it meets his collar, the inward bend of his tapering stomach. Everything about him glows with youth, from his shirt's rolled sleeves to his energetic laughter. He thrives, surrounded by music and friends, protected from the harsh world by the unchanging postcard that is Santa Cecilia.
He stands beside his friend at the bandstand, smiling cheerfully at the crowd already gathering around the low steps. His friend is as stout as he is slender, shorter overall but with a presence that feels twelve feet tall. He gathers busy shoppers with a booming voice, his charismatic grin encouraging them to remain for a song or two. Girls skirt the crowd's edges, giggling into their hands while the younger children clamor for old favorites. They have only their voices, and two well-worn guitars with fraying strings. Still, they're quickly becoming favorites.
She watches him scan the plaza, hands tightening against her breast. If only he'd notice her, today! She wishes desperately for him to look, to really see her and maybe even aim that soft smile in her direction. But his eyes reach her only to pass over entirely, hopping from one market stall to the next between blinks. His friend strums, breaking him out of his reverie; his answering grito signals the start of their performance.
A part of her knows that he'll never see her, so long as the crowd stands between them. She's invisible, as forgettable as the tomatoes and chiles that surround her in their wooden crates. Just another devoted daughter, a dedicated young woman with no name and no chance. The thought lumps in her throat, stealing her breath as a familiar ache flares to life behind her sternum.
She leaves before the song starts, heartbroken.
"Hello."
Today he is friendless, reclined lazily on the steps of the bandstand. The old guitar rests in his lap, its scratched surface lovingly polished. An old, creased notebook is beside him, face-up and open on the wooden slats. Behind his ear is wedged a pencil stub, its dulled point tangled in his hair. She freezes mid-step at the sound of his voice, shawl sliding from her shoulders to reveal the neat part of her braid to the world. Turning, she faces him with confusion; in such a crowded place, there's no way to tell if he's spoken to her, or someone else.
"You're Imelda, right?" He smiles in the face of her incredulity, hunched over the instrument like a vulture. The sun burns her scalp, only to be dwarfed by the heat blazing in her cheeks. Finally, it's happened: she has been noticed. It's what she's wanted for ages, the attention she's craved, and yet her first impulse is to pick up her skirts and run. "I've noticed you in town before," he continues, oblivious to her growing discomfort.
When? She wants to ask: or, rather, where? She's never felt his eyes on her, the way they are now. And he's never attempted to speak to her before, either. Is it because they're both alone? Her brothers are home with a cold, and his friend is nowhere in sight. Is she a diversion, something to color an otherwise boring afternoon? Or is something more devious at hand? She immediately looks around, searching for any silently laughing pranksters in the shadows of the plaza. There is no one… and now, she's out of ideas.
"What do you want?" The words tumble from her mouth without warning, peevish and cold. It's not at all what she meant to say, and definitely not how she wanted to say it. Regret floods her immediately, followed by a hot wash of shame.
She's used to being pestered, both from her brothers and the young farmhands helping with harvest, or planting, or whatever her papá needs at the time. She's not used to feeling this nervous confusion, especially not while talking to the cause of it all. She's out of her element, and the only thing to fall back on is intimidation. Unfortunately, it works too well.
"N-nothing!" He flinches away with a guilty laugh, suddenly interested in the sunlit patterns dancing across the plaza stones. "Perdóname, I didn't realize…." His voice drops to a mumble, one thumb scratching at a groove on the curve of his guitar. "I won't keep you." It's clear he thinks he's offended her, although she's anything but.
"No, it's fine." She blushes, mentally cursing how her voice trembles. Her heart is thumping in her ears, limbs locked and courage failing; still, she's nothing if not determined. Taking a bold step forward, she allows herself to be drawn into his conversation, fingers tight around the handle of her basket.
He perks up at the movement, the ghost of that handsome smile tilting his lips, and she finds her muscles slowly untensing. She relaxes enough to venture speaking again, fearing that she might choke on the syllables and sighing in relief when she doesn't.
"I didn't realize you knew my name. It startled me, that's all."
"I know you." There's something odd in the way he says it, something so matter-of-fact that it almost dares her to venture into the statement. He's offering her a glimpse, inciting curiosity with three small words, but… it's too dangerous a path to take. Not now, at least. She hesitates too long, staring until he averts his eyes with a laugh. "Who doesn't?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" The pencil leaves his ear, twirling between his fingers as he studies her silently from beneath long, dark lashes. He uses the lead end to scratch his chin, leaving a dark streak. It draws her gaze, highlighting the strong curve of his jaw and leaving her stomach somewhere near her ankles. She turns, too quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet. "If you're not going to talk, I'm going on my way."
"You're going home?" He scrambles to his feet, slinging the guitar strap over his head in one practiced move. The instrument settles against his spine, as easily as if it had been made for him. "Where do you live? I'll take you there." He draws himself up to full height on the steps, forcing her to crane her neck. "It's dangerous for a lady to be on her own, these days. There's soldiers all over these mountains."
"Then I suppose it's lucky I don't live in the mountains." Another curt reply, but she can't bring herself to care; she's too busy trying to figure him out, and failing miserably. He's a hard one to read, his words layered with meanings she can only guess at. It could just be another testament to his intelligence—she knows him to be smart, or at the least resourceful—however…. She can't help but feel that he's secretly laughing at her, teasing her.
"So will you tell me where you live?" He bends down to her level, tilting his head with a cheeky grin. "Or do I have to follow you home instead?" Oh, he's definitely teasing now. It makes her want to stomp away without a word, her nose in the air. But it's also flattering, this attention. And so long as it's on her, only her, well—maybe she can allow a little teasing.
"I live over the ridge." She graces him with a single look, expectant and bold all at once, before walking away. With a toss of the head her braid is dangling behind her, shoulders thrown back and eyes forward. Just as expected he follows closely behind her, peering over her shoulder with interest. "Past the farms, near the ford."
"Oh! You mean at the ranch."
"Yes. My papá is stable master there." Her stomach clenches every time she catches a glimpse of his long bangs, fingers numb around the basket handle. The noise of town is drowned by the heavy thumping of her heart in her ears. I'm really walking with him!
Her heart leaps when they drift close enough to brush arms, a thrill running through her from head to toe at the sudden, startling warmth of his skin. She's unexpectedly thankful for the banter, the edge to his questions that keep her on her toes. Without it she'd be reduced to something ridiculous, for sure. Pretending to shield herself from the sun, she pulls the shawl back over her head and hides in its pleats. It's much easier than explaining away the burning joy written on her face.
Uncertainty is bitter, flavored with disappointment.
She both wishes and fears he'll be alone, each day that she enters the plaza. It's safest for her on the days he's surrounded, either by listeners or a crowd of boisterous friends. She can go about her business smoothly, herding her brothers along, stopping to chat with her own friends, never worrying about her weakening resolve. Her unguarded emotions are dangerous; they let him too close, a moth drawing nearer to a vibrant flame. If not careful, she could easily be burned alive.
On days he is alone (which happens more and more frequently, to her bewildered dismay) he walks her home. He seems content to follow the way he once threatened to, the guitar on his back doing little to stop the wild gestures punctuating every word that leaves his mouth. It's hard not to chuckle at his exaggerated expressions; she even grows playful with time, returning his teasing jibs with a smirk of her own.
He sings to her as well, stopped beneath a tree or even on the side of the dusty path. Usually it's half-finished stanzas from his notebook, or showing off a new trick he's learned from the experienced mariachis. Sometimes it's only musings, general emotions he's not yet put words too. No matter what, it's always interesting.
"I hear you sing well," he often remarks as he tunes the guitar, an unspoken invitation.
"And if you showed up to Mass on time, you'd hear it yourself." Really, she's too afraid of what might go wrong. In a choir she's only one voice of many, her mistakes easily hid beneath better, more adept tones. But alone, well—her voice might slip, her tongue stumble over the words, her lips tremble with nervousness. She might have too much power over him, or not enough. She can't decide which would be worse.
"I see."
"Besides, if I wanted to sing, I would." She smooths the plaits of her long braid. "I sing enough as it is. I'd rather hear someone else for a change." Their eyes meet as his fingers find the strings. He appeases her without another word, but those dark, beautiful eyes tell far more than his mouth ever will.
"That young man…." Her mother turns from the window as she enters the small kitchen; the sun highlights creases in her weathered face. "Who is he?" From her tone it's clear that she's neither angry or judgmental. She's only pensive, and with good reason.
"He's just a boy."
"He walks you home nearly once a week, yet he's just a boy." Mamá's gnarled hands rummage through the basket, looking over the vegetables with a keen eye. No compliment, no complaint. She's done well.
"She's always staring at him." One of her brothers appears in the doorway, his glasses smudged with muddy prints. "Aren't you?" he adds mockingly, grinning widely enough to show off the gaps in his teeth. His twin follows in less than a breath, shoving at his shoulders until they spill into the kitchen, skidding on the tile like Don Hidalgo's rowdy bloodhounds.
"Yeah, and making faces."
"Don't forget the sighing." They jabber on like a pair of birds, one after the other as they cling to Mamá's skirts. Her eyebrows raise slowly as they speak, a contemplative frown twisting her thin lips.
"Oh, just shut up!" Her face is on fire, jaw clenched so hard that her teeth ache with the effort. "Can't you be quiet for once in your lives!?"
"But it's true!" they insist. "He doesn't play as much music anymore."
"He's always too busy hanging around you."
"I never asked him to come along!" The empty basket hits the floor in a fit of temper, fists clenched at her sides. Her body radiates waves of shame hot enough to buckle her knees, but fury keeps her upright. If her clueless brothers have noticed by now, the rest of Santa Cecilia has had more than enough time to draw their own conclusions.
"Imelda!" Her mother draws a breath, preparing to scold. She knows what will follow: Titus, Ephesians, Timothy. For once it's too much to bear; despite the risk of a punishment worse than words, she flees. Gathering her skirts she pushes past her brothers, sprinting across the muddy ground towards the privy. It's the one place she can be truly alone, at least for a moment.
She sinks to the earthen floor, her back against the splintering wood. It's too much to admit that she, who never wanted a husband, can now think of little else. The pungent twilight surrounds her, sweat beading on her arms; she puts her apron to her mouth, overcome not by the stench, but by the force of her own despairing love.
Stupid, stupid girl!
She sits, alone and miserable, beneath the tree—not their tree, it was never theirs. The tears stopped some time ago, but the occasional hiccup still bubbles, unwanted, from her breast. She lets them go one by one, making no effort to smother her grief. The grit on her palms scrubs at her cheeks, her face swollen and blotchy from crying.
Stupid, to think that he favored her over any other! And just what did she have to show for her dashed hopes? A handful of walks? A few weeks' worth of conversation? Nothing that would've been special to any girl with a handful of sense. Apparently hers had been washed away, along with most of her better judgement.
She can think of nothing he's done that's different from the way he treats everyone else. Beaus single out girls to walk home after Mass. They formally meet parents they've already known their entire lives. They sacrifice sunny afternoons to sit in stuffy parlors, dressed from the neck down in their best clothes. They hold hands when no one's looking, gathering fleeting moments to remember fondly later.
He's never hinted at any of those things.
It had probably been little more than a good deed for him. Hadn't he said that women shouldn't walk alone, for their own safety? No matter what the cause, he'd clearly thought nothing of it. She ought to have been able to shake off these feelings with the same ease he did. Why, then, did it hurt so badly? Her heart ached, as acutely as though he'd ripped it, still beating, from her chest. Every breath is laced with a sharp pain, but it's not enough to kill her.
She doesn't even know the girl, at least not personally. There is a vague half-memory of seeing her in the luxury pews on Sundays, a distant glimpse from a hacienda garden. It's clear they don't move in the same circles; her dress is made of store-bought silks, her hair curled in the foreign fashions. How can she, a girl with homespun clothes and frizzy braids, even dare to compete?
She was always reluctant to approach the bandstand if he wasn't entirely alone, and hadn't been close enough to hear their conversation. But their bodies had said more than enough. The way he leaned towards her, her coquettish giggles and batting eyes, the way she so openly, so shamelessly leaned up to kiss his cheek!
Of course he's promised, and more his luck that it's to someone affluent. He's a strapping young man, the kind with enough potential to outweigh a lack of fortune. Once plied to a proper trade, he'd be enough of a husband to make any woman proud.
And here she'd been, fumbling around him like an airheaded farmgirl. Had he secretly been laughing at her the entire time? How often had he mimicked her; did he tell his friends about stories, scenarios? Did he act out the way she blushed and hid her face with every smile?
The thought's enough to wrench another sound from her, a moan that echoes from the gaping void near her middle. She muffles it against her hands, closing her eyes against the stinging pain of fresh, unshed tears. It's easy to drown in the feeling, the overwhelming mix of horror, anger, utter mortification. However, there's a price to being absorbed in the pain; she can't hear anyone approaching until it's too late.
"Imelda?" The moan becomes a gasp, one that she tries desperately to silence against her tightly closed lips. Fingers frantically wipe in vain at her eyes, her face turning from the scuffling sounds of patched shoes against a dirt path. "Your brothers said you were at the plaza with them." He falters as he approaches. "You left so soon… I came walking this way to find you, I—are you crying?"
"No." Her voice resembles an old crone's. It wouldn't fool a deaf man, much less one so attuned to pitch. "I'm not crying," she tries again.
"You are." She hears a soft thump as the guitar hits the ground, strings whining. Without warning he's beside her, heat radiating against her arm as he strains to see around her hair. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
"I'm not!"
"Imelda." Fingers find her chin, brushing hesitantly before turning her face towards the light. Calloused fingers, roughened but gentle, so gentle as they wipe the tearstains she missed in her hurry. His eyes are always soft, but today they're so brown. "You've been crying," he points out obstinately, unwilling to let the subject drop. "Your eyes are red."
"And so is the sky!" she snaps, yanking herself away from his soothing touch. The canvas above them is deep blue, unmarred by cloud or smoke. No red in sight.
For a moment he stares, lost in thought, and then pulls his notebook from its satchel without a sound. He scribbles, mouth pursed, and then returns it without a hint of what it means. The shock is enough to startle her out of her anger. By the time she's recovered, the guitar is on his lap.
"Listen to this," he urges, changing the subject faster than a guilty husband. He begins a slow tune, one that seems to meld seamlessly into the world around them. The rustling leaves are his chorus, the wind his accompaniment; he bends nature to his will, threading it into his song as though he'd always meant for it to be.
"Imelda, have you ever…" He pauses, glancing furtively at her before looking out across the neatly plotted farms. The wheat bends in the breeze, golden waves racing across the hills below their perch. "Do you know that feeling, like there's a song in the air, and it's playing just for you?"
"Yes." His fingers continue to move over the strings of their own accord, plucking an evening melody as the crickets join in time. "I know what you mean."
"A feeling so close, you could reach out and touch it," he sings, crooning lyrics she's never heard before. The melody builds. "I never knew I could want something so much, but it's true." A lump builds in her throat along with the melody. How can something so beautiful hurt this much? Each sound drives the knife deeper into her heart.
"Only a song has the power to change a heart." One tear slides past her defenses, then another, trailing down to be lost in the expanse of her skirts. He sighs, fingers stopping abruptly. "It's not finished."
"It's wonderful." Fists ball in her lap, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "The person you wrote it for must be beautiful."
"She is." It would be less painful to be shot by soldiers, or dragged by a horse, or burnt in an inferno. Anything would hurt less than this. "I hope this song changes her heart, once it's complete."
"She lives close by, then."
"Not far." There's a hint of laughter in his voice. "Within easy walking distance."
"And you're promised to her?" If so then why was he here, with her? Did he have no sense of modesty?
"Well, not exactly."
"What do you mean not exactly!?" Astonishment trumps modesty. She gives him a withering glare, unable to put her hands on her hips while seated. "Are you leading her on?"
"I hope not!" His shoulders slump. "I just don't know how to tell her."
"If you're this serious about her, you need to confess!" Her heart splinters with every word, but she can't stop herself. The only thing worse than her own heartbreak would be his. "Someone else will take her, if you won't!"
"Really?" His tone is innocent, eyes wide. "Are you sure?"
"I'm certain." She swallows, determined to see it through. I won't cry for him when he's gone. Not now, not ever. "You'd better tell her sooner rather than later." There's no sense in pining over a man who doesn't return her affections. If he'll be happier with someone else, she'd only do herself a favor by forgetting him entirely.
Resolve carries her over until Sunday, when he shows up dressed as well as an orphaned musician can hope to be. His clothes are ironed, grease slicking his hair down to something manageable, if not neat. She's thankful that his pew is far behind her family's. She has no excuse to look at him during the service, and even less excuse to find her in the luxury seating. To see her expression would be torture.
She catches him waiting by the church steps when service is over, wiping his hands repeatedly on his trousers. Bracing for the pain that will surely come, she turns her eyes instead to the back of Mamá's bun. A dutiful daughter, following her parents as they usher her brothers home for a cold lunch.
Her shoes barely hit the street when he intercepts, weaving easily between the twins to block her path. She stops, startled, only to freeze under the helpless, hopeful expression on his face. The crowds milling around the cathedral doors gaze at them, some disinterested while others watch openly. He desperately tries to ignore them, sweat beading across his thick brows.
"Well?" It's all she can say, her mouth too dry. It's clear the color on his face isn't the summer heat. He offers one sweaty hand in answer, those honey-warm eyes begging her to accept what she's only just realized.
She doesn't remember giving him her arm, but suddenly they're walking stiffly together towards her house. Neither speaks; her mind is too aflutter for words, unable to nail down any one thought. She relaxes soon enough, letting him lead her rather than the two of them marching awkwardly out of town.
"I was told to g-get you," he stammers after an extended silence, fingers dancing nervously at his side. "B-before someone else does." At least he's used to her lack of forethought by now, barely flinching when the threats tumble forth as usual.
"I could slap you, Héctor Rivera." Finally she feels safe enough to give him a name. "Why didn't you say something?"
"I told you, I didn't know how."
"So it was better to let me think there was someone else?"
"It's not like that." They walk on, slowly. "I didn't think you liked me. You never acted like you did."
"You could have asked."
"You might have laughed at me."
"I might have. But I wouldn't." He's silent for once, and she finds herself emboldened. "The song was nice, but you didn't need to worry about my heart."
"Imelda…." He stops on the path, their arms slipping apart. He grabs her hand before she can race ahead, lips parted and brow furrowed. It's an adorable expression, one that sends her heart pattering against her ribcage. He tries to speak, swallows, tries again. "I used to see you watching us in the plaza. I thought maybe it was for Ernesto, but I always sort of hoped it wasn't."
"It wasn't." She has to lean on full tiptoe to kiss him, her lips landing more on his chin than his mouth. His blush renews tenfold, the sight of him practically steaming enough to fluster her as well. Only her mother's poignant ahem is enough to stir them into action, hurrying through the gate with equally guilty smiles.
He's always tender when they make love, cupping her body with a reverence she's never known from anyone else. Santa Cecilia sees her as a toughened woman with a lack of patience for idiots and fools, despite her own husband being both at times. But when they're in bed she is delicate, a fragile beauty, vulnerable in his arms. The concept isn't lost on him.
"Do you realize I'm the luckiest man alive?" His body presses hers into the mattress, breasts straining against her stays with a delicious ache. The baby is with her mother, tending the garden; at such a small age, chores are a novelty. It gives them time to savor this moment, rather than making do with the rushed coupling of new parents.
"Yes," she laughs, the sound becoming a sigh as her body arches to accept him. He has the power to bring tears to her eyes, of pleasure or mirth, sometimes in the same breath. He can make her feel a completeness she never knew existed before marriage, he can even gain control of her body, or give her control over his. It's a blessing he doesn't squander the potential.
"I'm the only one who can see you this way." He brushes the hair from her face, kissing her lashes as his body teases her below. Mischief and sweetness, simultaneously coexisting in the same man. How could she not love him? Love this?
"Because you're my husband." He would have said it anyway, but the power it gives her is too strong a rush to ignore. "Do you still want me?" She arches higher with a whine, close to begging for the pleasure their joining always brings. "Even after a child?"
"Even after ten children," he vows, moving to her neck as he enters her. He's careful even when she's soaked through her bloomers, easing into her until they're as close as their bodies allow. "Always, Imelda." Broad hands find her hips, kneading with a soft growl as he lets her adjust. "I'd die without you."
"Héctor, you—" She breaks off with a gasp when he hits something deep within her, head hitting the mattress as her eyes slid shut in bliss. "Oh…" One hand grasps blindly for his shoulders, drawing him closer while the other claws at the front of her blouse in an effort to reach her corset strings.
"Here, let me help." Long fingers slide past her stomach, as gentle as ever as they find the knot and unlace it. She takes a grateful breath, only to lose it when he grinds against her core before thrusting. His pace is zealous, relentless, just hard enough that she can barely draw breath to moan. Her legs wrap around his bony hips, lifting higher and higher in an effort to chase the peak already starting to build.
"I want you," she whimpers, combing through his hair with both hands. He kisses whatever skin he can reach, nipping at her pulse and shuddering as she runs one hand down the column of his throat.
"Imelda, fuck—" She squeezes him from within, his answering sound well worth the effort. He may have power over her, but she's not powerless.
"Make me yours."
"Don't touch me!"
He has no right to paw at her skirts, not when their great-great-grandson is more dead than alive. Not to mention that her photo still isn't on the ofrenda, her family is dressed in dancing outfits, and she's still grappling with the fact that her husband was murdered.
Why me?!
The wounded look she receives is enough to awaken a twinge of guilt: the first thing she's given him in nearly one hundred years. She tightens her jaw against it, ripping off the costume and making a mental note to pay Ceci for any damages. As much as she hates admitting it, it won't do to let her emotions take control now.
Sunrise will be here before they know it. She doesn't need him distracting her with the way he looks so different, and yet exactly the same, eerily the same. She can't dwell on the fact that a small part of her wants him; it's easily held at bay by stronger, smarter emotions, but there nevertheless. She can't let herself be reminded of how it felt to love him. She won't remember what it was like to be loved.
Otherwise she just might start missing him again.
Author's Note: Written for Cocos Locos Smut-Off contest 2019.