Blue Diablo

He sounded hoarse. Raw. Not polished, not perfect. “You’re still wearing it.”



I was. But then, he’d always possessed a sharper than average sense of smell. This morning I daubed on Frangipani Absolute after my shower, just a whisper at throat and wrists, because my supply was running low, and I didn’t look likely to take a trip to London to replenish anytime soon.



In his eyes I saw his memory of that vacation. I was blond then and we’d run across Old Bond Street in Mayfair, laughing in the rain. Well, I laughed; he was annoyed at ruining a perfectly good overcoat. But he was beautiful with the droplets beading on his skin. I’d wanted to lick them up, one by one. Still did, really, but I’d learned Chance wasn’t good for me, like too many sweets.



Of course that didn’t stop me from eating a box of doughnuts when the craving struck.



The idea of tasting Chance made me shudder from head to toe.



I hadn’t wanted to go into the perfumery, where even the shop girls looked posh. I swore they’d see the red Georgia dirt ground into my skin. Though I felt gauche and out of place, he wanted something to commemorate the occasion and bought me a ridiculously expensive scent that made him close his eyes in bliss.



When he opened them, he’d said simply, “It smells like you.”



Of course I was still wearing it.



My tongue felt thick as I tried to work out what to say. I finally settled on: “Yes.”



What he would have said, I’ll never know because his cell rang. Looking apologetic, he answered (he’d once taken a call while receiving a particularly artful blow job). That too was vintage Chance, and I scurried like a nervous gerbil back to the kitchen, where I occupied myself washing up the few dishes I’d dirtied.



A few minutes later, I felt him standing behind me. Not close enough to touch. That would raise goose bumps on my skin.



“That was the investigating officer in Laredo,” he said in a tone so neutral I heard the pain bleed through. “They found my mom’s purse.”



His stillness made me want to go to him. Right now, he wasn’t even rolling the coin, and I knew what that cost him. Just five feet, the distance from the white enamel sink to the arch leading to the parlor, but it was too far. I couldn’t take the steps that would put me within arm’s reach; I didn’t trust him, and more important, I didn’t trust myself.



“Will they let me handle it?”



That was a touchy subject. Cops always want to put everything in clear plastic bags with neat labels. Once it’s been sent to a lab, personal items often sit on shelves collecting dust. As a general rule, they don’t let weirdos like me near their stuff.



“If I have to, I can bribe the evidence room clerk.” He didn’t sound concerned.



I hung the dish towel up to dry, taking a last look at my cozy little kitchen before I clicked off the light. “So we’re going to Laredo tomorrow?”



Expressionless, he nodded. “I’d leave tonight, but I honestly don’t think I could handle the drive.”



Since it was full dark and the four hundred plus miles of highway stretching between Mexico City and Monterrey spanned some pretty desolate country, that made sense, but he never admitted weakness in the old days. He could’ve proposed we catch a flight out, but I’m sure he knew I didn’t have a valid passport. The irony of living in Mexico as an illegal alien doesn’t escape me.



“I’ll make some calls.”



First I needed someone to watch my business. I expected a couple of relatively big sales in the next few weeks and it was crucial the shop was open. I didn’t want to come back to find my life in tatters because I’d left it unattended.



I dialed Señor Alvarez up; I’d given him a cheap BenQ phone on the prepaid plan so we could stay in touch easier. His success ratio was so good, I’d taken him on as a freelance buyer, more or less. He rummaged the side streets and flea markets so I didn’t have to, and rang in on his cell phone to consult with me about job lots of merchandise.



“Bueno,” he said as I connected.



That was an interesting thing. Bueno means good or well, and people answer the phone that way here. I’d demonstrated my gabacha-ness by saying hola until I figured it out. I’m still not sure why we answer the phone like this, but there you have it.



I explained my proposition. I needed to take a business trip, but I’d offer him two hundred pesos a day and thirty percent commission on anything he sold while minding the store for me. Yes, of course I trusted him, and he was honored by the opportunity. We stroked each other verbally for a few more minutes, a practice I deplore, before we sealed the deal. Could he turn up in an hour to receive the key?



When I disconnected, I found Chance watching me. “You picked up Spanish fast.”



It was my turn to shrug. “I have a gift for languages—who knew? I’ll get the spare bedroom made up for you.”



“Can we not do that?” he asked quietly. “I don’t even know if my mother is alive, and I don’t want to lie across the hall all night, listening to you breathe.”



By then, I had clean linens in my hands. My heart slowed, and then tried to make up the extra beats all at once. “What are you asking for, Chance?”



If Wishes Were Candy



He sucked in a breath like he had a hole in his chest. “Something I haven’t known in a long time, Corine. A little peace.” Then he seemed to read my misgivings because he sighed. “Not sex. I’ll even sleep in my socks.”



An inside joke—and I heard him laughing all over again at Coupling, a British sitcom we used to watch together: No self-respecting woman would ever let a naked man in socks do the squelchy with her. I ached suddenly, missing that shared context. God, I was bad at people coming back into my life. But I wanted it again with someone. Someday.



How that was possible when I lived as I did, I had no idea. I couldn’t see myself doing PTA meetings and car pools, cheering at soccer games. What would I talk about at a book club? I imagined myself inadvertently searing my palm over tea while handling a charged object. Maybe my only chance (no pun intended) lay with him or someone like him. Someone who existed on the fringes, who defied probability and made normal folk a bit skittish. Well, I was all over that.



I remembered something he said, years ago. “Sometimes when you meet someone, there’s a click. I don’t believe in love at first sight but I believe in that click. Recognition.” He’d kissed me then and whispered: “Click.”



His answer was supposed to make me feel less alone, grouping us together, but I’d had my fill of the us-and-them mentality, even if it contained a grain of truth. Recalling that moment, though, I softened toward him. Perhaps fatally.



“Okay,” I said, dropping the sheets onto the couch. “You can sleep in my bed.”



Once the words were out, I felt like the blonde in every horror movie who hears a noise in the basement and goes to investigate alone. Sometimes you smell the stupid all around you, but you step in it anyway. This was one of those occasions.



“Thank you.” He held my look a beat too long, but that was all. No suggestion in it.



I don’t know what I’d have done if he gloated or used a pet name. I like to think something appropriately horrible, like handling his underpants and advising him he’d soon be castrated in a gardening accident. To give myself a little distance, I sent him upstairs to rinse off some of the road dirt. I joked about not wanting his grubby butt in my bed, but we both knew it was pretense.



Chance could be made of Teflon for all I know; he never looks less than perfect. While I waited for Señor Alvarez, I puttered around the apartment and tried not to imagine the man lounging in my bathtub. “What kind of place doesn’t have a shower?” he shouted.



I glared, though he couldn’t see me. “Mine.”



If nothing else, Alvarez was prompt. An hour on Mexican time could mean anywhere from sixty minutes to six days. “Buenas noches,” he murmured, accepting the key.



“I appreciate this,” I said in Spanish. More verbal stroking as I explained the basic bookkeeping system, and we did business in flattery. I came away slippery with it.



If I didn’t trust him, though, I’d have no other recourse. The life I’ve built here doesn’t offer backup plans. I have no fail-safe because I didn’t expect to leave. I bought gewgaws, for God’s sake.



Before he left, I paid him a week’s wages in advance, a thousand pesos. Sounds like a lot, but in the exchange it averages to about a hundred bucks: he’d make a decent amount in commission. I hated losing even thirty percent of the big sales, but it was better than missing them entirely with a closed shop. Alvarez was a salesman, as well as my buyer, so he’d take good care of the place.



We exchanged pleasantries and I asked him to water my garden on the roof. He said he didn’t mind, didn’t ask how long I would be gone, and excused himself with the queer formality I found endearing. I supposed from his perspective, it didn’t matter if I came back. If I didn’t, he inherited the shop, as possession is nine-tenths of the law, so maybe he was hoping for natural disasters as he departed; it was beyond me to interpret the thoughts swimming behind his eyes.



His face held a certain impassivity; you see it in all waiters and valets. They might want to jam a knife through your left eye socket, but you’d never know it from their expression. Working retail, I’ve acquired a similar look myself.



Then there was nothing left for me to do but climb the two flights of stairs to my aerie and face Chance again. I reflected on my idiocy while I did so, unable to believe he’d maneuvered me into letting him sleep in my bed. Part of me tingled and refused to stop; my body didn’t believe the business about the socks.



“Down, girl,” I muttered as I headed for the bedroom.



It wasn’t late, but if I knew him, we’d make a start at first light. So I scrubbed my face, moisturized with Olay (hey, it’s a classic for a reason), and then brushed my teeth. Hesitating for just a moment, I changed into a seldom worn nightgown. The nights are warm here, and I generally sleep alone. You do the math.



Maybe it was cruel, but as my final act in preparing for bed, I touched up the frangipani on my throat.



I found him sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing striped boxers, a white T-shirt, and, yes, his socks. The sight made me smile, though not as much as seeing him in my boudoir. What a wonderful word. My room definitely rose to the challenge, done in rose, lavender, and handmade lace. It bordered on brothel burlesque, especially with the balcony overlooking the street where I might show my bosoms to prospective clients.



“All set?”



Nodding, I threw some clothes in a bag while fighting off the memory of other occasions where I’d done exactly that. Chance told me we were leaving and I began to pack, no questions asked. Right up until the last, I would have followed him through fire. In the end, I did that too—and that was why I had to leave him.



Is that love? It seems like a pale word, too easily tossed about by people who don’t know the meaning of it, who twist it for their own ends. I’m afraid of it now, right up there with clowns, close spaces, and open flames. On our second date, I had a panic attack when Chance ordered cherries jubilee. After that, I felt sure I’d never see him again.