Is that code for ‘leave us alone’, or ‘you smell like ass’?
Whatever it is about to happen between them right now, I don’t wanna see it. Not now, not ever, so I grab my bag and take the exit she mentioned.
A few feet along, with no lights to help me see better, I reach a white door halfway in. That has to be it. The other two rooms have curtains that provideprivacy.
I open the door and walk in. The walls are unpainted and mold is everywhere. There is not separation between the shower and the rest of the bathroom. Still, this is much better than the ship.
I turn on the shower and the water is warm enough for me to get some pleasure out of it.
I don’t worry about my wound. Esmeralda covered her work with a plastic bag and some tape to prevent soapy water from soaking it. A bar of soap made with leftover pieces of old soap is all I find to clean myself.
The moment I turn off the shower I already feel twenty pounds lighter. A cracked, spotted mirror looks back at me, and I can see my hair and shoulders again. Not a single drop of makeup covers my tattoos anymore. My now tanned skin, reddish cheekbones and forehead are the result of being exposed to the sun during our voyage. My bloodshot eyes and cotton mouth are a testament to my lack of rest and dehydration.
Alright, that’s all I’m going to asses at the moment.
I fucking hate mirrors.
I go through my bag looking for all that I need to complete this process of becoming human again, even if it is for a few hours.
Once I step out of the bathroom, the smell of homemade food welcomes me. My stomach reacts immediately and reminds me that I’ve been hungry for a few hours.
How long has it been since I’ve had a decent meal?
The last thing I remember is that amazing pizza from Italy.
My stomach growls loudly in response.
Esmeralda is behind one of the curtains, cooking – that’s my guess. The truth is she’s stirring something inside an old pot. Many jars filled with colorful spices sit on a few wooden shelves in front of her.
There are no windows in the kitchen. In fact, what’s odd is that there are no windows in the entire place.
The Frenchman is sitting in a corner of the kitchen on a wooden chair, his arm already bandaged.
“Finally!” he exclaims, while dropping his fist on top of the table.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I’ve had a nice shower. I’m sorry, I’m not used to being dirty all the time.”
Esmeralda laughs.
“She’s not wrong. You need a shower, too.”
As he heads toward the shower, he replies to her in Spanish. She blushes.
Interesting.
I take his seat, Esmeralda turns back and continues cooking. She’s chopping vegetables and tossing them inside the pot.
“I don’t know what you are making, but it smells fantastic,” I say.
She turns around, smiling at me for that comment, then glances at my tattoos.
“Surely, you are starving. Both of you, I suppose. No?”
“You’re too kind,” I reply. “Oh, and thanks for this, by the way.” I point at my waist.
“Those bandages need to be changed before you leave,” she explains as I start to cover my tattoos with makeup once more. As I’m working, Esmeralda turns around and draws closer. My arms have once more caught her attention.
“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” she asks.
