“I’m not that old.”
She rolls her eyes, amusement flaring in their depths. I like this version of her—teasing and playful. It reminds me of the version I witnessed on the soccer pitch. Confident, engaging, alive.
As we near the end of the street, I flip my chin to the dessert truck set up on the closed-off street.
“Do you want some churros con chocolate?” I ask.
Carla glances up, incredulous. “After all the desserts we just ate?”
I shrug.
She grins cheekily. “You’re a bad influence, DiBlanco. Who would have thought?”
I snicker, holding up a hand in defense. “I’m just asking.”
Her expression softens as she shakes her head. “I’m okay. But thank you.” Then, she notices the falla in the center of the street. Gasping, she quickens her pace to reach it. It’s still a work in progress, cordoned off by barriers, as a portion of the papier-mâché structure is added day by day until the falla is complete.
“This is going to be huge,” Carla muses, tucking her lips between her teeth as she slowly walks around the brightly colored sculpture, dissecting it. “What do you think it is?”
“Definitely satire,” I comment, looking up at the outline of an hourglass.
“These are small phones.” Carla points as she leans closer to study the contents of the hourglass.
“And people,” I add, stepping beside her.
The hourglass is a massive, brightly colored structure. It isn’t completed yet but it’s obvious that the bottom of the hourglass is filled with mobile phones and tablets. And figures of people sit, staring at their devices instead of each other. The only communication is through a screen, not a conversation.
“Time is passing them by,” Carla breathes. “And they’re wasting it.”
“Missing the moments,” I murmur. Gesturing between two hunched figures, I say, “Our connections are increasingly artificial now.”
Carla looks up at me, her blue-green eyes darker. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you ever feel like that? Like you’re missing the moments?”
At the pain underlining her words, I pause. Think about what she’s really asking me. Am I missing the moments? “Sometimes,” I admit. “Not because of my dependence on technology but because of my own choices—responsibilities and obligations.”
“Taking care of everyone around you,” she muses, echoing my sister’s recent assessment.
“I did what I had to do.”
Surprise flares in her eyes. “I didn’t mean that as a judgement.”
“I know. I’m…being defensive. B’s been on me to…well, to get a life.”
Carla cracks a smile. “Little sisters can be meddlesome.”
“The worst. She’s threatening to create dating profiles for me.”
Carla’s eyebrows rise, nearly into her hairline, before dropping back down. Something I can’t read shutters over her expression and she averts her gaze. “Is that what you want? To date a stranger?”
I fold my arms across my chest, turning my attention back to the falla. “Well, I can’t exactly date any of the women I know since they’re mostly dating my friends so…I imagine a stranger is best. Although I’d rather meet her naturally. Like through a friend or at a bar, like how Ale met Mar.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you identify with this?” I point at the falla.
“Sometimes,” she says slowly. “I’ve definitely missed the moments. Soccer, the Tornadoes, was my whole life. My whole identity. Now…” She trails off.
“Now, what?”
