How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water (23)

He lit a cigarette, and forget it.

Do you have whiskey? he asked.

I never have liquor in the apartment because I don’t like to give it to Rafa, who always drinks until the bottle is finished.

The next time, I was ready for José. I bought a bottle of whiskey. When I poured the whiskey over some ice, the way he looked to me, ay, papá! We became like satin.

With each visit—more satin.

I look good for my age, but still, it’s not every day a man appears in your door like that. José was not ugly—tall, with big shoulders and a strong nose. Are you following me? You say yes with your head like you understand, but I think you’re too young to really understand. When you become my age it’s not enough to eat a lot of fish and aguacate and gallons and gallons of water to keep it juicy and tight down there.

Ay, I’ve embarrassed you! Perdón.

It’s just that I can never tell Lulú about José. If she finds out she will curse me. She wouldn’t do it on purpose; a curse is something people do without conscious.

I know, I know, we have serious work to do. But let me tell you that every time José rang the doorbell—I answered. I was ready. I mean ready. I shaved my legs. I cut my hair down there. I put on fresh panties—the lacy kind. I turned off all the lights and received him smiling in the shadow.

Same like him, I needed a place to run away without rules.

I massaged his shoulders. Waited until he got comfortable. When he gave me the look, you know the look. I put the radio with the music loud and then I climbed him like a horse, with my back against his chest. We didn’t look at each other. Our minds free. José grabbed me—not too hard, but with strength, you know. Ay, it felt good. He never took all the clothes off. I liked that. It made everything feel less wrong. And I pressed his hands on all my buttons, here and here and here, while he put it in me so good. ?Ay!

He, many times, said to me, You’re like a dream.

Men live on the clouds.

When he left, I put on the pajamas and put my hair in a tubi. Washed off the makeup so my face could breathe. Turned off the music and put the telenovela on. What a relief to have the apartment for myself.

Nobody needed to know what happened between us. It felt good to keep it private. Like praying. You don’t have to announce that you pray. I don’t need no one to make me feel bad about it. José was the antídoto to some of the most poisonous years of my life. He filled the emptiness of my apartment.



* * *



Listen to me, it’s good to be reminded we are alive. For this, Hernán is good.

No, don’t look at me like that. We are family. But he is still a man and he would be dead if he didn’t react to me.

One time Julio poured milk on my shirt. What a disaster. It went down my blusa and pants. I had to take everything off. That day I was watching the children in the apartment of ángela. So I went to her closet, but that flaca has nothing that fits me. So I looked in Hernán’s closet. OK, I admit I like the smell of sweat and colonia. And then I heard my name in that fatherly voice of Hernán.

Cara?

He was standing in the entrance of the bedroom. I had left the door open to hear the children.

?Mira co?o! My towel fell to the floor. Thank God my back was to him. I covered my tetas with my hand and picked up the towel. It was like I was caught stealing. What was I going to do? I was only wearing panties. Then I saw him looking at me on the mirror in the wall on the other side of the room. Standing there like a statue. I was like a statue too. Then I dropped the towel again. And there it was. Impossible not to see—Hernán was hard like un pilón.

No wonder ángela was so jealous with Hernán. He is a bombón. I mean not guapo-handsome like for the movies, more gentle and sexy, like San Francis. You know, the saint that loves the animals?

So yes, this too, I have no one to talk about.



* * *



Ay, Dios, what happens to me in your office. I talk and talk.

Yes, I’ll drink some water.

Maybe it’s because the lights here are so bright, the walls look like a face without makeup. Why you don’t wear makeup? You’re young. This is the time to find someone. You don’t like makeup? You only need a little bit. I’m sure you see all the scrunchy around my eyes, on all my face. You put on the cream, no? Every day, you have to wear the cream and a big hat so the sun doesn’t get you. I didn’t know this when I was your age. Look at my forehead—the lines are making me crazy. If I knew that all the laughing and crying I did when I was young would appear like this, I wouldn’t have laughed and cried so much in my life. At least this you should learn from me.

But, in serious, don’t tell people about any of this, especially Lulú. Maybe she will need this program next year when she is officially a senior at fifty-five years. Let’s hope El Obama is good and does not cut it. But yes, promise me, if Lulú sits in this chair, what I say never leaves here. You promise? OK, good.

If Lulú knew about José, she’d say, Tell him to leave his wife and make you a serious woman.

I’ve lived long enough. I know life is no movie. If José left his wife and got serious with me, you think he’d want to do exercise with me in the sofá the way he did all those years? I don’t think so! He’d be like my brother Rafa. Who used to come home after work, park himself on the sofá in front of the TV, and drink until he fell asleep. Poor Miguelina. If she said something about it, he yelled at her, ?Co?o, mujer! Can you give me a few hours to relax? Miguelina was more alone than all of us because with each drink Rafa went more and more far away.