Olga Dies Dreaming(9)

“I mean, the construction of these buildings is garbage—I hope you’re leasing and didn’t buy—but wow, the view. Chef’s kiss!”

Olga stared at him. He was naked, his flaccid penis dangling as he paced the room clocking each angle of the view.

“You’re naked.”

“I am,” he said. “Is that weird, somehow? We were naked all night.”

“Yes, but now it’s daytime. So, I guess I was just a little surprised you were still—”

“Naked? This is interesting, I didn’t take you for the Puritan type, but then again, I didn’t know you’d spent formative years with the witch burners up north.” She looked at him quizzically and he gestured towards her mug.

“Ah!” She chuckled. She was less uncomfortable than she thought she would be, the realization of which made her uncomfortable. For a moment there was a silence between them, the meteorologist on the TV lamenting about climate change. A clip of her brother on the news brought her back to her senses. “So, yeah. Listen. It’s just that normally—”

“God,” Matteo exclaimed to the TV, “is there a day when this homie isn’t on the news?”

She put her mug down. “Not a fan, I take it?”

Matteo laughed. “Of what? His schmaltz or his unbridled ambition? I was half expecting him to announce his bid for president the day after the last election!”

Olga didn’t really want to engage him; after all, chances were she would never see him again. But she was proud of her brother.

“We should be so lucky. My brother’d be an amazing president. He’ll never run though. So, for now, I guess the people of Sunset Park have to be content with having their own personal Pedro Albizu Campos.”

Matteo looked from Olga to the TV and back to Olga again.

“Hold up. Please don’t tell me that you’re related to Congressman Pedro Acevedo?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.” She smiled, a bit smugly.

“Damn.”

“Damn.” She laughed.

“No hard feelings?”

“None. You know what they say about opinions and all…”

“Funny girl!” He smiled. “Listen, ma, since there’s no hard feelings, let me ask you what’s a dude’s got to do to get a cup of coffee? Where’s that Brooklyn hospitality?”

She was embarrassed. She knew better and he’d called her on it.

“How do you take it?” she asked as she reached for a second mug.

“Light and slightly bitter?” He was suddenly up close behind her, his erection brushing the back of her robe. He reached around her for the mug. “Don’t you worry about me; I can fix my own coffee. Go do your thing. Just going to drink my java and charge up my phone and I’ll be on my way. You’re not the only one with shit to do.”

This last part he said playfully and pinched her cheek for good measure. She stared at him. Who was this naked hoarder?



* * *



OLGA COULD FEEL him looking at her things while she showered. Her color-sorted bookcase filled with tomes that had whispered to her soul. She imagined him staring at art on her walls: the Barron Claiborne print of Biggie Smalls, the framed Puerto Rican flag she paid too much for on eBay despite her doubts about its authentic role in the failed ’50 revolution, a framed Beats, Rhymes and Life album cover. She felt a shiver down her back at the thought of him gazing at the photos on her desk. Her at her college graduation, looking fraught with anticipation. The portrait of her grandmother she had taken back in high school. Her brother getting sworn into Congress; how she beamed with pride. The black-and-white shot of her parents on the subway, the one that was burned indelibly into her eyeballs, of them leaning on each other, exhausted after a day of protesting. The signs that had rested on their laps are cropped out of the shot, but she didn’t need to see them to know what they said. Viva Puerto Rico Libre and Tengo Puerto Rico en mi Corazón. Her mother, beautiful and young, her face, as always, makeup free, a scarf stylishly wrapped around her head. Her father with his smooth brown skin and mustached face, his beret and army jacket covered in protest buttons. Her heart raced imagining Matteo staring at these photos, his mind forming questions that his mouth would soon bring into the air. She could not imagine discussing her parents with this stranger, especially not this morning.

Though still covered in soap and mid-leg-shave, she shut the water off. She put her robe on as she ran from the shower, leaving a trail of water behind her. “You need to get out of here!” she shouted as she entered the living area. “You can’t be touching my things.”

Matteo was not, as she had imagined, thumbing through her books or staring at her photos. He was fully dressed, overstuffed knapsack already on his back, standing at the sink rinsing the two coffee mugs. He shut off the water and dried his hands with the dish towel.

“Whatever’s clever, girl. Wash your own dishes!”

He walked past her dripping-wet self and patted the arm of her damp robe.

“Ciao,” he called to her as he walked out the door.





THE PRICE OF MANGOS





Prieto Acevedo woke up before dawn resolving to have a good day. He ran a few laps around Sunset Park, got his daughter Lourdes up, fed, and ready for the ridiculously bougie Art & Talent Day Camp his sister had paid for, and then, despite the heat, donned his suit jacket. This morning’s agenda included what he considered the best part of his job: greeting his constituents on their way to work.