Signal to Noise(91)

Sebastian slid his hands in his pockets and he shook his head. He looked sad and embarrassed and irritated, and it made her want to pinch him because she wasn’t faring any better. And... damn it.

“You’re giving me the brush off, again,” he said.

“I’m apologizing.”

“It still feels like a brush off.”

“You don’t want to be hanging out with me,” she said, smiling. “I’m bad for your health.”

He managed to smile back, the corners of his lips rising a little. He shook his head, a chuckle escaping his throat, though it sounded dull and forced.

“Of course you are. You are terrible for me. Not that I ever gave a damn. Not that I’d start giving a damn now.”

“Please don’t use that tone.”

“What tone?”

That sad, defeated tone. Like she had just stabbed his hand with a fork. Like she had just run over his favourite puppy. Like she was this awful person. She wasn’t. Not when you looked at it all rationally.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” she muttered, ignoring the question. “You know, like a thief.”

“Maybe you should have,” he said. “It’s better than saying ‘Let’s pretend nothing happened.’”

“When did I say that?”

“Wasn’t that coming next?”

Meche bit her lip. It wasn’t exactly what she was thinking, but it wasn’t far off. It sounded perfectly reasonable in her head. Now he made it seem like an insult. It was all very disjointed and unpleasant.

“I bet you wish you never spoke to me again.”

“Not really,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on. Well, don’t worry. I wish I hadn’t seen you again.”

That kind of hurt. It shouldn’t, but it did.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I... um... thanks, I guess. For the honesty and all.”

“I fly out tomorrow. Thanks for the record.”

She thought about giving him a final hug but it was already weird enough between them. Besides, if she hugged him, she’d have to kiss him on the cheek and that was just... not right.

Meche stepped back, raised her right hand, signaling ‘bye.’ He raised both hands as if he were surrendering.

She turned around and headed towards her bedroom. The tango was over. A new song was playing.





Mexico City, 2009





MECHE LOOKED AT the plane tickets, checking her row for the third time. The problem with flying these days was that you had to be at the airport three hours before your flight left to get through the security checkpoints. That meant you couldn’t just dash onto your plane, sit down in your seat and be on your way. No. You had to wait at a coffee stand and ask if they had tea. Only they did not have the tea you wanted, which only served to increase the impatience quotient.

And the music. She did not even want to mention the airport music. Some banal, tiresome selection of soft rock hits which had her stuffing her earbuds into her ears as soon as the first song started playing.

Meche tapped the little circular table with her nails and wished she could board a train and be home in two hours, like in Europe. Everything was two hours away by rail there.

She looked at her iPod, pressing the arrow button. It was stuffed to the gills with songs and she couldn’t find the one she was looking for. Who would have thought that in the years since she had left Mexico she had never once bothered to purchase a single album by Duncan Dhu?

Meche took out the earbuds.





MECHE STOPPED BEFORE the door and knocked three times in quick succession. The lock turned and Sebastian stood there, looking at her suspiciously, like she had just sneaked into his building to smuggle a bomb.

“Mercedes,” he said.

It was probably the first and only time in his life that he had used her real name as opposed to the nickname. Nobody, ever, called her Mercedes. Least of all him, spitting her name out like it was a kick to the gut.

She wondered if he was going to slam the door in her face and start yelling in Catalán.

“I need to give these back to you,” she said, handing him the box with the shoes. “They are yours.”

“I gave them—”

“They don’t belong to me,” she said. “I can’t take them.”

Sebastian cleared his throat rather loudly but did not attempt to dissuade her. He grabbed the box and set it aside, on a small table sitting by the door.

“I thought you were flying out today,” he said. His gaze was not on her face but instead had fixed on some point over her shoulder.

“I was, but then the weirdest thing happened.”

“What, exactly?”

“Do you know the distance between Oslo and Mexico City?” she asked him.

Sebastian frowned. He turned his face a couple of millimeters, then looked down at her fully, though with caution.

“About 9,200 kilometres. I’ve measured it on a map. Bad habit.”

“That’s quite a few kilometres.”

“Yeah.”

Meche looked down, nodding and shuffling a step closer to him.

“I looked it up when I was at the airport.”