All-purpose caulk.
Great.
“Don’t use any power tools while you’re spacing out like that, Miriam. Your Tío Chucky almost burned off his hair and scalp messing with a blowtorch.Para qué lo necesitaba ese tonto, no lo sé.What’s got you distracted?”
I eye Antonio. He smiles and mouths,You in trouble.
“Nothing.” I back away from him and the caulk.
My faculty for scientific analysis hiccups. I have a mental catalog of numerical methods to approximate answers to problems I can’t solve through algebraic procedure.
The Finite Element Analysis is a go-to for how a complex mechanical structure will react to different conditions that impact its stress distribution. Yet no method helps me comprehend why I can laugh with or at Antonio one minute and want to test how much body heat we’ll generate the next.
Urges come in waves when I least expect them. Like right now, in a home improvement store, while I’m on the phone with mymother. It happened briefly last night when he came over, and then upstairs when we were sandwiched together.
There has to be an academic journal with published research that explains the biological effects of a friendship with someone who is hide-in-the-bushes fine, with a kind heart and a good butt to match. I need that analysis and proposed solutions so I’m not staring at a tube of caulk, imagining how thick Antonio’s container is.
What is wrong with me?
“Don’t spend all your hours on drill bits and shower curtains,” my mother snaps.
“No lo haré. We’re wrapping up.” I wince the momentweslips. This is why I don’t like talking on the phone, or in general.
My mother latches on to the confession before I can take it back.
“Marcela is there?” The pitch in her voice shifts. “Pass the phone. I tried calling her and kept talking to her voicemail.”
“I’m not with Marcela,” I clarify.
She went to meet her sneaky link in Crystal Beach late last night, to deal with her stress. Does the Canada Border Services Agency know she’s hopping countries to bounce on penis?
Is that what you need?International peen?
Do I?
The other end of the line goes quiet. “Then who are you with?”
Fluorescent light beams down on buttery caramel skin. The sleek lines of Antonio’s cheekbones shift when his mouth tips up. Under a hood of lashes, brown eyes wander from the phone pressed to my ear, down my oversized sweater, and to my hand stationed on my hip.
He’s waiting for a response, and he gestures for me to go on.
Jerk.
“A friend, Mama,” I say with nonchalance.
That’s what he is, even if he excites tingles in places that shouldn’t tingle. Well, one placeshould, but not because of him.
A tingle-free friend zone.
“What friends do you have there?” I snort at the question. My mother is no better than Marcela.
“I have one! I plan to add a few more next week.”
Something I can’t interpret flashes across Antonio’s face. I motion toward the self-checkout lanes and dip my brows at his headshake. “Mama, I have to go. Love you.”
“Love you too, baby.”
I stuff my phone inside my winter coat. “Why aren’t we leaving?”
