The Hanging Words

It Was A Monster Mash

Wednesday and Thursday roll by uneventfully. Each day, I have to willfully restrain myself from marching up to the twelfth floor of the office building to demand Milo's presence—if only to save some face. The discovery that he's the only thing I've been able to think about since our encounter in the gym on Tuesday might not be appealing to the man himself. Obsession doesn't look good on anyone. We text sporadically, but I quickly learn that he's not an excellent texter. Granted, I'm not sure I would be either if I had other people to text.

Dores used to be the only one. But I can't text her anymore. Our conversation sits below my new one with Milo. I see it every time I go to respond to him. She used to send me a photo every day—whatever image best summarized how the day went. The last was a sunflower stalk bent nearly to the ground with the caption I've never seen one that wasn't perfect before! I'd written back with a joke about the flower's core strength. At the time, I'd thought the picture was meant to be comical.

It doesn't feel that way anymore.

Milo's slow response rate doesn't bother me much. So he has a flaw—if you can call it that. Everyone does. I'm sure he has more that I'll discover later if given the chance. I have plenty of my own, so it's only fair that he does too. I'm just hoping the rest of his are as innocuous.

When Saturday rolls around, I almost forget that I'm babysitting Mariana until Aunt Evora calls to say that they're on their way. I wonder briefly why Brian isn't the one bringing her over, but I'm sure I'll get the full story when they arrive. Brian's probably having to pull a heavier workload now that Dores is gone. It's good that Aunt Evora is so readily available to help out. She can be forceful with her opinions, but Brian is probably grateful for her presence. No doubt she also enjoys feeling needed, given how long she's been living on her own.

They arrive around four, Aunt Evora with her auburn-dyed perm pulled back into a beret and Louis Vuitton bag slung over one shoulder. Mariana trails behind her wearing a Vickie Dancer backpack and a matching sweater. I wonder if she's going to demand we watch an episode while she's here. I've never seen a single frame of the cartoon, and wouldn't have even recognized the character were it not for the yellow bubble letters across the top.

When I answer the door, Mariana gives me the biggest smile.

"Hi, Uncle Felix," she says. She tries to pull away from my aunt, who tightens her grip on the girl's hand.

"Hey, hey! Look who's here! We're going to have a lot of fun!" I say enthusiastically, which only makes Mariana pull harder.

"Remember what I said."

"Yes, Auntie," I reply, trying my best not to roll my eyes.

"Rosary before bed—you don't want to compromise her soul."

Compromise her soul. I don't understand how the fuck someone can say that unironically, unless they're in a horror movie or something, of course. I would laugh, but I know that if I do, I'll be in trouble.

"Don't let her see any...you know, well, she's only six," Aunt Evora says, letting go of the girl's hand. Mariana darts into the condo, disappearing into the folds of my home. I might have been distracted by her movements were it not for my aunt's latest accusation.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean she's only six. Don't expose her to that sort of thing."

There's a burst of anger within me before I feel my heart sink in my chest, a weary sadness settling inside my ribcage. "I'm not going to 'expose' her to anything," I say softly.

"So you've hidden any pictures?"

Does she think I just have images of naked men engaging in lewd acts around my home? Does she think the mark of homosexuality is to submerge myself in a constant stream of male hedonism? I would be indignant if my innate shame hadn't taken over. I want to argue, but there's no use. I wouldn't be able to change her mind. Instead, that this is her instinctual question makes me sad.