The spicy notes of cologne wafted onto the balcony with the flurry of Spanish. Rico telling tales of fish back home in Costa Rica, bigger than the kids he was talking to. It clashed with the stale stink of cigarettes and quiet. Mel was surprised at how much she had tuned out. The neighborhood below was alive, bustling with conversations, revving engines, so much laughter.
Love did that — consumed its victims from the inside out. Bringing them down a reverie capable of silencing all of life’s other joys.
Mel had told him she left already. Texted him that she couldn’t be away from her pothos and fiddle leaf, her herbs and vegetables, for so long no matter how much she wanted to stay to greet him. He knew she was happy to sit for Zekki, his aging python, just as much as he knew she’d have to go home to her own babies, even if they were plants.
She had been ready; bags pack, keys jingling on her wrist as she reached for the door. . . his flight was landing. The United app told her that. It would be a late night, an early drive, but it could be done. Her plants could wait.
Mel returned her keys to the table. The bills, now paid, that had covered the surface along with napkins and an assortment of pens had all been filed away, returned to their homes. They had been replaced with notes, silly things to fill the void of her absence. None of them said it,said I love you. There were no hearts over the I’s, but there were little things. She laughed at her own drawing of the open fridge (inside he would find a pot of homemade mac and cheese). Mel pocketed her keys, her slippers slid across the polished floor as she went into his bedroom. The floor would be dry by the time he got home.
Her original plan to leave had disappeared like the stains on the coffee kissed linoleum. He had meant to do it himself before he left. She had come up a few hours early. Instead of getting dirty cleaning up, they teased each other relentlessly as he packed keeping cleaner than the floor. He would have swept and mopped if it hadn’t been for her. She did it for him. It wasn’t a big deal.
Not like the way he felt in her hand, her mouth, her cunt. . . Mel sighed at the thought. She could have filled the bucket for him with her juices. The way he made her come. She could feel herself dripping as they had left his bedroom and out the front door. Torturous.
“It wouldn’t’ve mattered,” he laughed. They both had been looking down at the bulge in his jeans. “I could have come a thousand times this morning, but being around you. You make me so hard.”
He reached for her, Mel’s head nuzzled into his hand.
“Hard and happy.”
He smiled as he pulled her in close.
Days later and she could still feel his tongue lapping against hers. She wasn’t sure how he had made it to the airport safely when she had already loosened the button on her jeans by the time had made it back upstairs. She would have put money that she had already come once before he had even reached the highway. She certainly had come again and again before he made it to the airport.
She had taken care of herself in his absence, and a few times since, but he was coming home now. They could pick up where they left off. Mel’s eyes had travelled to the bed, already her belongings were tucked into the closet, nothing to indicate she was still there. Everything she came with except her panties from the day he left; those were still on his pillow waiting for him to hold them, smell them, lick her off of them util they were just as wet as they had been when he left.
She had gone to his underwear draw to retrieve his hidden pack of cigarettes. It would be another 40 minutes, 50 at the latest. He was worth the wait.
And she waited. An hour and ten minutes had passed since he should have been home. Time had moved different in her reverie. She looked around, following the noises from the neighbors below. It sounded like Rico had all of his nieces, nephews, their partners and children visiting along with the rest of the block.
Mel was happy someone was having fun. Her phone didn’t show any notifications, no missed calls or unseen texts. The United app was open, mocking her. She would be happy too, once he walked through those doors. She swallowed. Nothing had been confirmed, maybe it was silly, but. . . she shook her head, letting the thoughts fly from her mind. The app told her the plane landed it didn’t advise on baggage claim status or shitty highway traffic.
The smoke from below mixed with the air she was breathing, filling her lungs. Her senses cringed, awakening fully from her day dream. Cigarette smoke. . . eventually he would have to quit. The laughter of women and children softened. Maria had made her famous tres leches cake. Rico shouted to one of his nephews to bring him back a Trits. The door slammed closed and flew open. The hinges screaming with activity.
Rico thanked his nephew. Lighters clicked and sparked. The mood shifted. Mel thumbed down her muted feed. She didn’t want anyone to know she was out here, she hadn’t been meaning to hear so much. The laughter had caught her attention. “Yeah, tica can ride my face all day.” More laughter. Rico’s aged voice, rich and smooth like her favorite cup of coffee caressed her ear. Mel silently laughed knowing how active he and Maria still were.
A fresh wave of cologne, a new voice. It was different from the others. It was quiet, at first. Until Rico made another comment that would have Mel blush as hard as it would have made her laugh. The new voice spoke up. His voice accepting a hit from whatever they were passing around. Probably a joint. The constant air of weed made it hard to distinguish who and when was smoking, at least for Mel.
“Pop, pop, poppah.” Mel could see Rico’s fist curled and lifted sticking it to the air.
The first time Rico stopped him asking about the her, the güera. She was mortified as he told her, she hadn’t realized how loud she was in bed, how loud he made her. He was happy for him, for them she supposed, even when they weren’t in the sheets, Rico could hear their laughter, their jokes. Always polite when he saw her. Kindness radiated from him between wafts of paint and marijuana, in his seventies he still worked regularly as a house painter. It had become a joke between them: pop, pop, poppah.
Mel laughed quietly to herself. The joke, the excitement of knowing how close he was; how surprised he’d be to find her here. Her thighs rubbed together softly, already she was dripping wet.
“All weekend, Viejo.”
The harsh intake of smoke surprised Mel.
“Like volcano, right. I hear him with the güera. POP, POP, POPPAH!”
She never smoked, rarely and not since. . . it had been a few weeks now.
“This one,” he said. Another inhale “Family is from back home. Wants the whole package.”
Taking the red hot tip of her first cigarette she lit a second one.
“Good for you. White girls are fun, but you don’t marry ‘em.”
The cigarette dropped from Mel’s fingers. The smell of burnt hair and singed flesh punctuated the air. All Mel felt was hatred as it coursed through her body. It wasn’t Rico, it wasn’t him. She was open to marriage, to a family. They hadn’t really talked about it. She didn’t want them now, but things changed. People changed. Situations changed.
She was happy.
Had been happy.
All weekend, from back home, you don’t marry white girls.
The laughter was lost behind the slam of a metal door. His front door. His familiar weight shifting between the stairs. The notorious creak at the halfway point.
Mel’s body froze the hatred she felt, she frozen with shame and terror.
She shouldn’t be here.
Couldn’t be here.
The clean floor, the pantry full of groceries, the fridge stuffed with homemade meals. Bile raced up her throat chasing the lingering smoke.
Maria’s voice beckoned to anyone who was still outside on the block it was time for the birthday cake. Mel felt for anyone who wasn’t in the house by the time the candles had been lit. She hadn’t been to any of their parties before, with the painful clarity of hindsight she could see why. He had told her all about them though. They sounded fun, had sounded fun. Now they sounded like lunchroom humiliation.
All weekend, from back home, you don’t marry white girls.
The last of the laughter from downstairs faded; one door closed while the key clamored around in the lock in his door. This door. There was time to make it all go away. Freeze the onslaught of humiliation, of hurt.
Mel stubbed out her cigarette, brushing the fallen one from her lap — ashes and skin flaking away as she stood. The world pulsated and swayed in front of her. If she had been driving, she wouldn’t have been able to stay on the road. If she had been driving, she wouldn’t know what she knew now.
She leaned forward over the edge. They were gone. All of them, inside to celebrate. She should have been celebrating.
Would have been if she had gotten to tell him her worries, her fears, her excitement. She was going to wait until she knew for certain. Telling him tonight would have added to his homecoming; at least if she hadn’t overstayed.
It would have made it a home for him to come back to; a family with her. . .
Did most people survive second story falls?
~
He opened the door to his apartment. Dropping his keys, he shook his head at the pile of papers scattered across his table. Bills gone, probably paid and filed. Mel’s handwriting grating against the bachelor decor of his apartment. There was a crude depiction of a book, or maybe a fridge? He wasn’t sure.
It didn’t matter. She would tell him all about it whether he figured it out or not when she called him — a thud crashed down through his thoughts. He looked in the direction of the closed kitchen window.
Damn, must have been messy. Hopefully it’s not the cake.
Rico knew how to through a party. Maybe he would head downstairs in a bit, grab a piece of Maria’s tres leches cake. It wasn’t Mel’s but he would sooner impale his nutsack before acknowledging that fact.
Maybe he could have her make one and pass it off as Carmen’s when they went by Rico’s next barbecue. It wasn’t really lying if he said my girl made it, as long as he didn’t mention which girl. Not that anyone on this block would believe, let alone imagine, Mel made it. She was an outsider, one that at least three of Rico’s nephews had hopes of picking up after he discarded her. They heard her just as loud and clear as he did in bed.
He rooted through the dozens of containers packed in his fridge, all covered in paw-print patterned sticky notes. Mel’s handwriting dying for his attention every which way he looked. He didn’t even know what half this stuff was. He was sure there were plenty of instructions detailed on those notes. Finally, he found a Modelo in the back.
He’d have a smoke, a beer and then go downstairs to hang out. He walked through his bedroom. Mel’s panties sat on his pillow. His cock throbbed. He had never met a tica who would do half the shit Mel did. She was out of her mind. She was fun, but fun wasn’t family.
He rolled his eyes. Mel had closed the door to the balcony but hadn’t locked it. For a white girl, stereotypical in her obsession with true crime, she forgot to lock the windows and backdoor more than his grandmother with dementia. He would have to check the kitchen ones. See if she locked them or if just closed them.
He looked outside. A light tendril of smoke still trailing out of the ashtray. His pack of cigarettes were sitting on the table. He must have just missed her.
He thought of the unlocked door again. It wasn’t so bad. The block was its own type of family. Most of them could be connected through a slew of cousins, baby mamas, and marriages. Family though. . . a stranger could be dying on the side walk outside and no one would call the cops, for fear one of their own might be involved. It was better to knowing nothing, say nothing. Bitches would jump ship at the first sign of trouble, but family, that shit was the most important.
❤️