Page 123 of Raspados & Regret

Elías

I know.

Another pause.

Fabián

I’m sorry if that’s not enough for you right now.

Elías

Go pray or whatever.

Fabián

Lalo

Elías

I’m serious…

Your tía is gonna clock you texting through the homily.

Fabián

How do you know it’s the homily?

Elías

I’m spiritually gifted.

Fabián

More like annoying.

You make it hard to focus on anything but you.

Ugh, why does he have to say things that make my stomach want to do backflips?

Elías

Yeah, the big man did me a lot of favors in blessing me with this face and ass.

The old rhythm tries to crawl back. More like it limps. He doesn’t answer after that. Maybe this time he really does put his phone away. Or maybe his tía catches him and smacks him with her prayer book. Maybe he kneels and stands and prays and tries to make his peace with wanting me.

I shower, and the water hits my neck, and the hickeys sting. I let it. Maybe I’m the masochist? When I get out, I wrap a towel around my waist and wipe steam off the mirror. There I am: a man who spent all night making another man ache, then let himself believe the ache meant something solid.

I lean both hands on the sink and watch the stupid tear fall from my eye.

“Pendejo,” I whisper to my reflection.

By the time I get back to my room, there are no new messages.

Good. Fine. We’ll just leave it at that for now.

I dress in clean shorts and an old shirt, strip the bed because I am not letting my mother discover evidence and send me directly to the Vatican for processing, and shove the sheets into the laundry basket.

And because I don’t want to smell him every night when I’m in bed alone.