hace consuelo tener compania en
su suerte y duelo.”
Two in distress makes sorrow less.
As if one phone call could change the course of
the Colorado River, I waltz out of the bathroom, fully confident that my
comrade in crime Henry will make sure to intercept the tape.
In the cafeteria, I find Robert, tall and
fabled-looking, despite his casual attire and messy hair. He stands in front of
the cashier, two sandwiches, two bags of chips, and two sodas in front of him
on the tray. He’s handing the woman wearing a hair net a twenty dollar bill.
“You like turkey, right?” he asks me as if he
already knows the answer.
“Yeah, thanks.”
With the tray in his hand, Robert looks at me
with his chin dipped, and I think of Dorian Gray—the classic novel about a man
so beautiful that an artist painted his portrait to capture that beauty before
it faded away.
“Why don’t we sit outside?” Robert suggests,
one index finger pointing the way toward the glass double-doors. I follow him
out of the excruciatingly lit cafeteria into the night, where a garden wraps
around concrete. Several round tables cluster in a half-circle. Lampposts emit
a fiery light. The long leaves of the fence-high bushes bow and spangle,
revealing night in tiny circles.
Robert chooses a table on the far right, and we
sit down. Taking his sandwich and drink, he pushes the tray over to me. After
peeling the white paper off his sandwich, he takes a bite, chewing slowly. He
doesn’t look at me, just at the lights twinkling in an apartment buildings
nearby. It seems as though we’re sitting at a corner café in Paris rather than
outside a hospital cafeteria.
Having opened my sandwich, I take a bite. It’s
turkey with pesto and cranberries, the combination tasting like Thanksgiving in
my mouth. Looks as though Robert has the same sandwich. We don’t talk, just
eat, and I try not to stare at him because he’s my boss and I don’t like him.
I’m only here because of his dad, that nice man upstairs.
When Robert finishes his sandwich, he takes a
swig of his soda and leaves the chips untouched. He leans back in the plastic
chair and crosses his arms over his chest. After eating only half my sandwich, I
set it down and sip my soda.
I can’t help but wonder what Robert is thinking.
Certainly he’s thinking about his dad, but I wonder what he thinks about in
general. Like at night when he’s at home alone, what are his thoughts? Does he
think about work? Does he contemplate conquering the world and creating a
minion army of little devoted assistants? Does he watch videos of insects
suffering violent deaths? Or does he think about the starving in Africa, the genocides
of history, and feel pity? Maybe he thinks about a woman? Some girlfriend who
comes to his house late at night. I imagine her to be a skinny brunette with a
barbarous tongue. A tiny thing with sharp nails. She’d be spoiled and rich and
drive her daddy’s Porsche everywhere. Maybe she’d show up at his house late at
night, and when Robert lets her in, she’d stride through his entryway removing
her high heels, her tight pants, her slinky little top. Then she’d just
evaporate at sunrise as if she were a phantom.
In our silence, I feel the need to say
something but can’t think of what to say to Robert. We never just talk about
casual things. We only talk work, and I don’t want to talk work with him now. I’ve
had my full dose of work today.
“I might know someone you went to high school
with,” I say before I have a chance to contemplate whether I should. What can
it hurt?
“Who?” Robert looks at me, his arms still crossed
loosely in front of his chest, giving him more muscular biceps than usual. His
chair rattles a little as he loosely crosses his legs.
“His name is Enrique—he was a freshman when you
were a senior.”
Robert’s eyelashes seem to concentrate. He
shakes his head at me. “I don’t know him. It was a big high school. How do you
know
su suerte y duelo.”
Two in distress makes sorrow less.
As if one phone call could change the course of
the Colorado River, I waltz out of the bathroom, fully confident that my
comrade in crime Henry will make sure to intercept the tape.
In the cafeteria, I find Robert, tall and
fabled-looking, despite his casual attire and messy hair. He stands in front of
the cashier, two sandwiches, two bags of chips, and two sodas in front of him
on the tray. He’s handing the woman wearing a hair net a twenty dollar bill.
“You like turkey, right?” he asks me as if he
already knows the answer.
“Yeah, thanks.”
With the tray in his hand, Robert looks at me
with his chin dipped, and I think of Dorian Gray—the classic novel about a man
so beautiful that an artist painted his portrait to capture that beauty before
it faded away.
“Why don’t we sit outside?” Robert suggests,
one index finger pointing the way toward the glass double-doors. I follow him
out of the excruciatingly lit cafeteria into the night, where a garden wraps
around concrete. Several round tables cluster in a half-circle. Lampposts emit
a fiery light. The long leaves of the fence-high bushes bow and spangle,
revealing night in tiny circles.
Robert chooses a table on the far right, and we
sit down. Taking his sandwich and drink, he pushes the tray over to me. After
peeling the white paper off his sandwich, he takes a bite, chewing slowly. He
doesn’t look at me, just at the lights twinkling in an apartment buildings
nearby. It seems as though we’re sitting at a corner café in Paris rather than
outside a hospital cafeteria.
Having opened my sandwich, I take a bite. It’s
turkey with pesto and cranberries, the combination tasting like Thanksgiving in
my mouth. Looks as though Robert has the same sandwich. We don’t talk, just
eat, and I try not to stare at him because he’s my boss and I don’t like him.
I’m only here because of his dad, that nice man upstairs.
When Robert finishes his sandwich, he takes a
swig of his soda and leaves the chips untouched. He leans back in the plastic
chair and crosses his arms over his chest. After eating only half my sandwich, I
set it down and sip my soda.
I can’t help but wonder what Robert is thinking.
Certainly he’s thinking about his dad, but I wonder what he thinks about in
general. Like at night when he’s at home alone, what are his thoughts? Does he
think about work? Does he contemplate conquering the world and creating a
minion army of little devoted assistants? Does he watch videos of insects
suffering violent deaths? Or does he think about the starving in Africa, the genocides
of history, and feel pity? Maybe he thinks about a woman? Some girlfriend who
comes to his house late at night. I imagine her to be a skinny brunette with a
barbarous tongue. A tiny thing with sharp nails. She’d be spoiled and rich and
drive her daddy’s Porsche everywhere. Maybe she’d show up at his house late at
night, and when Robert lets her in, she’d stride through his entryway removing
her high heels, her tight pants, her slinky little top. Then she’d just
evaporate at sunrise as if she were a phantom.
In our silence, I feel the need to say
something but can’t think of what to say to Robert. We never just talk about
casual things. We only talk work, and I don’t want to talk work with him now. I’ve
had my full dose of work today.
“I might know someone you went to high school
with,” I say before I have a chance to contemplate whether I should. What can
it hurt?
“Who?” Robert looks at me, his arms still crossed
loosely in front of his chest, giving him more muscular biceps than usual. His
chair rattles a little as he loosely crosses his legs.
“His name is Enrique—he was a freshman when you
were a senior.”
Robert’s eyelashes seem to concentrate. He
shakes his head at me. “I don’t know him. It was a big high school. How do you
know
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