there's no record
Šíma
there is always a record
Chapter 7: Tobík
Itext Damián at ten in the morning.
Free today? I can show you around.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear.
Recovery day. Free after noon.
Meet me at the Monroe entrance. I'll find you.
I send him the address and then put the phone down on the counter. There’s the question of the shirt I should wear today. I ignore the question of the shirt and also pull the blue linen out of the closet, the one that fits across the shoulders the way the woman at the boutique in April said it would. I’m choosing it because it’s hot outside. That’s the reason I’m telling myself and I’m letting the reason stand because the alternative reason is unhelpful to examine before noon.
He’s waiting at the Monroe entrance when I get there at noon. His hair is down today, curls loose against his neck. My brain notes the hair and tries to move on from how it might feel to run my fingers through it.
“Tobík.” He lifts his chin and his smile hits me. “Where are we going?”
“There’s a taco place three blocks past the trail. Green awning, run by a woman named Maria who’s about five feet tall and gives me a hard time about my standing order. She started calling me Tuesday after the second week because Tuesday was easier to remember and I always came in on Tuesdays. The lamb barbacoa is the thing. I’ve tried everything else on the menu, partly out of guilt that I wasn’t being adventurous enough. But the lamb is the best.”
“You have a name at a taco restaurant?”
“I have a name at a few places. Tuesday at the taco place the most accurate.”
He laughs. The surprised one, not the controlled one.
The Czech is already flowing between us, the sentences arriving without translation. I start walking and he falls in beside me, his stride longer and mine quicker, and somewhere around the first curve we find the rhythm without deciding to.
Claire waves from behind the dog park fence. Bagel is pulling against the leash and losing. I wave back and Damián watches.
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Bagel. He sits on my left foot every time I see him. His full weight, completely committed. The owner’s Claire, that’s her behind the fence. We met because Bagel kept escaping his leash to sit on me and Claire kept apologizing, and at some point the apologizing turned into a conversation. Now I know about her job at the dog rescue and her boyfriend who plays bass and the fact that Bagel is a senior who only acts like a puppy for me, which Claire takes personally.”
“Why the left foot?”
“I haven’t asked. Bagel doesn’t explain.”
The taco place appears on the left. Maria is behind the counter, and the moment she sees me her face opens up into a smile.
“Tuesday! Hello! But today isn’t Tuesday?”
“I am making an exception. I have brought a friend.”
She looks at Damián. Actually, she looks up at Damián, because Maria is five foot two and Damián is six foot four and that difference is significant.
“He’s tall,” she says, as though Damián is not present.
“He is. He plays football.”
“Soccer?”
“Yes.”
