Page 138 of Embriagado

“Hey!” I whined too loudly because we’d caught the attention of the table across from us.

Mind your own business, assholes.

“Well, if you must know,” he started, grabbing my attention back, “I’m half Colombian from my mother’s side.”

I whistled.

“Colombiano? That’s hot.”

He huffed, circling the mug’s rim with his finger. “Is it?”

“For sure. So, are you close with your folks?”

He looked up to meet my stare, and surprisingly, he didn’t seem upset. If anything, the small smirk on his lips made him look amused.

“You’re asking an awful amount of questions tonight.”

“Just taking advantage of your chatty mood.”

His lips curved up before he leaned both elbows on the table. “Fair enough.” He sighed. “You can ask me three more questions, but that’s it.”

Trying not to look too eager, I bit my lip and nodded.

“Go on. Ask away.”

Debating where to start, I decided to stick with my original question.

“So… Your folks. You’re close with them?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“What are they like?”

“Is that your second question?” He studied me with a raised brow.

Running my fingers through my hair, I grunted. “It’s more of a two-part question.”

He chuckled, eyes dropping to his tea while he moved one hand to rub his neck.

“My father is a decent, hardworking man. While my mother, well, she’s a kind, warm-hearted woman. Growing up, I remember the house always smelling of polvorosas and ajiaco santafereño, and whenever I came back from school, she’d be waiting for me with a hot meal. And for dinner, all three of us would sit around the table and talk about the day we’d had, while the family dog played with its toys between our feet. You could say we were the embodiment of the American dream.”

I might be a bit slow, but right now, I knew he was lying.

It wasn’t that he was a bad liar; in fact, he was probably one of the best I’d ever met. But the way he told me this fairy tale about the perfect family, one that perhaps existed but had nothing to do with people like us, I knew it was bullshit. Like some shitty text he’d learned in advance and memorized countless times, he recited this story to me with a hollow expression.

Was this bullshit story his fantasy? Or just another attempt to keep me in the dark? Either way, I had no intention of putting him on the spot. After all, he knew I recognized his lie, so what was even the point?

“It really does sound like a dream,” I said, and he smiled.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “I bet you keep in touch with them, too.”

“Why, of course.” His fingers still circled the mug’s rim. “I speak with my mom every night.”

“And your dad?”

“Only on the weekends. He’s too busy with work during weekdays.”