Page 168 of Raspados & Regret

He knows because his mouth curves just a little at the corner. I grab the mango bin and carry it to him. When I pass, I lean close enough for only him to hear.

“Keep it up and I’m taking those shorts off with my teeth later.”

He nearly drops the scoop, and I keep walking. Two can play his little games, and I think I just might win tonight.

Behind me, Elías says, very softly, “No mames.”

I smile at the floor.

Tiny victories.

I survive on them.

Around eight, my tío Jorge shows up with a folding chair he absolutely did not need to bring, but he says he will not sit in any chair that belongs to the market. He says market chairs are bad for the back. He also says this about movie theater seats, waiting room chairs, restaurant booths, and once, a perfectly innocent bench at Lake Merritt.

Tío sets his chair up near my tía and nods at me.

Then at Elías.

“Elías.”

“Tío Jorge,” Elías says, because he started calling him that around January and never stopped. My tío pretends not to like it. Secretly, he loves it.

He points at the line. “It’s been busy?”

“Sí, lots of people today.”

“¿Ya comiste?”

Elías shakes his head. “Not yet.”

My tío looks at me like this is my personal failure. “Ay, feed him. What kind of husband are you?”

I nearly knock over the stack of lids next to the tablet and cash box. “We’re working and we’re not married, tío.”

“You live together. You come to holidays together. Looks pretty married to me. So… why haven’t you fed him?”

Elías glows, actually glows, and I’m not sure if it’s from my tío calling him my husband or from him caring if he ate or not.

My tía hands Elías a foil-wrapped taco. “Here, mijo, eat before you get skinny.”

Elías takes it with both hands. “Gracias, tía.”

My chest tightens, and you’d think I’d be over that by now, but it still does that sometimes because seeing him fold into my family like he was always supposed to be there makes my heart so happy. Every Sunday my tía goes to Mass and so do I, most weeks. Only now sometimes Elías comes with me, mostly because he likes breakfast after and says kneeling helps build character and his glutes.

The first time he came, my tía squeezed his hand during the sign of peace and said, “Dios te bendiga, mijo.”

Elías looked at me afterward in the parking lot like he was trying not to fall apart. I pretended not to notice for his sake, then bought him pan dulce afterward.

I’m not so good at “showing my feelings,” but I am excellent at carbs.

My tío still doesn’t talk much about it. About us. About me being with a man. But he asks Elías about the raspado business during get-togethers, changes his oil for free even though Elías insists on paying, and once told me, while we were fixing a transmission at the shop, “That one loves you loudly. Good. You’re too quiet.”

Then he hit the wrench twice and added, “Don’t mess it up.”

That was his blessing wrapped in a threat.

It’s very “Mexican father” of him.