“I’m learning about World War II, but Daddy just told me about German inflation.”
I look at Dominic, who shrugs. “What do you remember about German inflation?” he asks her, and his voice is even more jarring than this situation I’ve currently found myself in. It’s gentle, on the quieter side, yet deeply intense, like the sunrise on a tranquil lake.
She looks up at the ceiling, looking identical to her father while doing so. “You said that… during World War II, Germany needed lots of money to pay for the war, so they made lots and lots and lots of money super fast.” Francine thinks about what to say next. “But… then…” she struggles with this next part. “Everyone in Germany got really poor?”
Dominic and I go to answer at the same time, but he backs down with a look of surprise.
Luckily for me, explaining things to children under the age of ten is a superpower of mine. “Alright, let's think about it this way: imagine you have a special sticker that everyone at school loves. If you only have one or two of those stickers, they’re really special, and people might trade you something cool, like a fancy toy, to get one. But what if, all of a sudden, you got a huge box with thousands of the same stickers. But then everyone else in the school got a big box too. Now those stickers aren’t so special anymore because everyone has so many of them. So people wouldn’t want to trade their toys or anything special for just one sticker. They might say, ‘If you want to trade, I’ll need onehundredstickers instead of just one.’”
Understanding shines in her eyes.
Something resembling shock shines in her father’s.
“So,” she says, nodding with absolute certainty. “The Germans had stickers.”
I wait for more.
She stares.
I wait for some more.
She stares some more.
“Close,” I finally offer.
Dominic chuckles.
“Can I ask you something? Did you read that all by yourself?” There’s no way a five-year-old could read the word ‘Germany’ or ‘inflation’ or even ‘war,’ if we’re being honest.
“Nope,” she answers confidently. “I can’t read. I just look at the pictures. And then I get Daddy to read these big words that are super big,” she says, while pointing to the bolded headings of the subsections. “They tell me what the pictures are about. And he tells me about them.”
I blink. “Cool,” I manage.
Dominic clears his throat. “So, Lina,” and I love the way my name sounds in his mouth, “I’m assuming you know Ollie from work?”
“Yes,” I say in my most professional voice. “I was his AP for five years. We became close friends. He’s great.”
“You know Tito Ollie?” Francine asks me.
“Sure do. Although he hates when I call him Ollie. I do that to mess with him sometimes. I didn’t see you at his new house last weekend, Francine,” I tell her.
“Frankie, please,” she says, the same way I did earlier. Just kidding. I think I’m obsessed with this girl. “I was playing video games with my cousins in Tito Ollie and Tita Georgia’s room.” She looks at her dad before turning back to me. She leans in. “I was taking advantage because I’m not allowed to play video games,” she whispers.
This enigma of a man sighs. “It was a special occasion. You can play when you’re with your cousins. As long as there are no guns.”
Frankie gives me a look that implies there were indeed, many guns.
“Are you a real cousin or a fake cousin?” I can’t help but flirt with this man who may as well be wearing a t-shirt that saysLINA’S TYPE.
He smiles shyly, the corners of his eyes and that full, luscious mouth settling into those well-worn lines. I die a little. “Real cousin. One of the few. My dad and his mom are brother and sister.”
“We live upstairs from Lola Gloria and Lolo Ben,” Frankie informs me.
“Ooo. I call her Mama Flores. She’s really fun.”
They give me identical smiles, and Frankie takes the lull in the conversation to go back to her light Saturday morning picture book perusal of the Axis powers in North Africa.
My name is called by the barista, and in one smooth movement, like water flowing around stones in a river, Dominic pushes his chair back, stands up, and strides to the counter, giving me the new opportunity to look at him from behind. He’s tall, taller than my five ten, lean muscle rippling across his wide back and tapering down to a narrow waist, like a runner or maybe a swimmer. He might be considered lanky, gangly even, if it weren’t for how graceful he was, how in control he was of his body. Every inch of his black t-shirt and black jeans are covered in glitter.
