#satuwrites

“You make me a little crazy, you know that?”

Imelda lifted her head and glanced over, narrowed her eyes. The pins between her lips dipped as she slanted her mouth in confusion. Héctor was leaning in the shade of the courtyard tree, adding a small skeleton face to the headstock of his guitar. The strings hung loose as he did this, allowing him full access.

His eyes, a light brown that shifted with hints of gold in the dappled light, met hers. She felt a now familiar bloom of warmth and fought hard against a smile. She won, but not by much.

“And how, pray tell, am I doing that?” She pointedly turned away. Pulled a pin from between her lips. Adjusted the seam of the skirt she was altering.

“You pretend to ignore me.” She could basically hear the faux pout in his voice. The over-exaggerated puppy-dog eyes he would be flashing towards her. “You sit and sew and don’t ever glance my way!”

She scoffed. This was a blatant lie. When they were in the same space they couldn’t help but look at each other. Sneaking glances filled with heat and passion. Their gaze was magnetic, and snapped together if either drifted close.

“And I can get over it, but besides all of that, you won’t marry me.”

“Imelda… Imelda, honey, wake up!”

A hissed whisper. Interrupting a beautiful dream. Of singing and dancing on a cloud of petals. She waved a hand at the voice, as though it were a bothersome fly.

“Imelda, mi amor, please.”

Slowly, groggily, she blinked her eyes open. Héctor was pressed against the wall, still dressed in her old nightdress, his eyes wide with panic. He cast a sideways look at the door and for a moment she almost saw it open, her father or brothers standing there, glaring at the two of them. But it was just a moment. A blink and the door reinstated itself. Closed. Firmly closed. No gap or glaring family member to be seen.

“Héctor, wha-“

“Shh!” He leapt over into the bed, putting a hand over her mouth and glancing fearfully at the door. “Imelda, you have to get me out of here! If your father knew!”

She pushed his hand off, shoved his shoulder so he fell onto his back with a whoosh of lost breath. He looked ridiculous in the long, white nightdress with embroidered flowers at the hem. Ridiculous, and oddly endearing. Had she picked that one on purpose? She really couldn’t remember.

“Héctor, Papa won’t care. We are getting married in less than a month! He will not care that we shared a bed for one night!” She crossed her arms, turned her face away. “Besides, it’s not as though it is the first time we lay together. Just the first time we actually slept.”

Héctor flushed. Didn’t look away. Turned her face back to him and gently ran the ball of his thumb over her cheek.

Héctor yelped. Shook his hand hard. Put the tip of his finger into his mouth and tasted blood.

“Stupid needle!” He threw the offending object away with a disgusted grunt. “Stupid dress!” Now the garment hit the ground. Crumpled. He kicked at it with malice, and hissed in breath as it caught his foot and rolled his ankle.

“Need a hand, Héctor?”

He jolted. Spun in his seat. Óscar leaned in the doorway. Felipe stood behind him, arms crossed and a knowing smile on his face. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was hard to tell. He brandished his hand at them, frustrated. Blood beaded at the tip, startling crimson on his brown skin.

“Stupid dress isn’t cooperating!”

Felipe snickered. Óscar entered and picked up the crumpled cloth. Or maybe it was the other way around.

“Oh, Héctor, were you trying to sew Imelda something?”

Bristling a little. “No!” Softening. “Maybe…” Defeated. “Yes… Sewing is really hard though. It keeps stabbing me.”

He sucked the tip of his finger again. Glowered at the twins as they exchanged a look.

“First your fabric is all wrong.” Óscar balled the cloth up then shook it out. “See the creases? This cloth won’t flow well. And I assume you want it to flow well considering the type of skirt you seem to be trying for.”

“Trying for?” Héctor paused. Swallowed his annoyance. Nodded. “Yes, I want a dress that will follow her movement. Emphasis every turn. Can you do that, Óscar? Felipe?” Looking back and forth between the two of them, hoping he looked at the right one at the right time.

Three months.

That’s how long it took for him to break a promise, it seemed. To forget about his family.

The letters had come for three months and then stopped. Not gradually, not over time. Suddenly, as though with a knife. No letters for Imelda. No letters for Coco. The smell of his hair faded from his pillow. The sound of his voice faded from her mind.

Another three months was all it took for her patience to snap. He wasn’t coming home. He had lied to her, or lied to himself. Or both. His last letter spoke of the show they’d played. The roaring success that Ernesto could taste. They were so close to their dreams, he’d said. No mention of homecoming. He’d finished with a poem, words to a song he was writing, no doubt. Talking about the black curtain of her hair, the line of her throat, the depths of her eyes. Or of someone’s eyes.

Imelda never listened. She was proud and defiantly independent, despite her father’s attempts to keep her home and safe. Sneaking out of windows and around Santa Cecilia, finding places she could sing and dance without worrying about who watched.

When she sang her voice carried over the music and silenced the band. When she danced the flourish of her skirts and quick, light steps moved people away until she was alone in a circle of admirers.

But then one night it changed. It was the middle of summer, the air warm and muggy. When she sang, one guitar continued to play, pecking out the harmony to her melody. When she danced someone dared to come closer, to move with her steps and match her movements.

She cast a short look at this intruder. A hopeful grin. Golden tooth winking at her. Dimple denting his left cheek. Wide brown eyes that were filled with light and joy and awe. Thick black hair matching a neat goatee. Tall, thin and gangly. All long limbs held together in exaggerated angles. He held a white guitar, carefully decorated by hand, and was comfortably finding the notes to match her song.

Amused, she stepped up the pace of her words and her feet. Watched with an unfamiliar pleasure as he matched her effortlessly, his grin widening. Then he started to sing too, and his voice was in perfect harmony. He didn’t know the song. Not really. He sang nonsense syllables, almost but not quite forming words. And she was too delighted to care.

“Ay, dios mío, stop fussing, Héctor.”

Imelda couldn’t help but smile. Even though he was being incredibly annoying. Flitting about. Fluffing her cushions. Getting her drink after drink of cold water with fresh berries floating in it. Even though she needed to pee so badly after every sip that it hurt. Holding her hand and supporting her everywhere. Endearing as it was, it was starting to wear down her patience.

“I don’t fuss, mi amor,” Héctor said. She raised an eyebrow. Darted her gaze to the platter of assorted chips and pastries he was carrying. Made a little ‘explain yourself’ gesture with one hand.