Dual Eclipse

12

Coffee beans, milk and sugary sweets permeated the air, and I nearly gagged. It was better than cigar smoke, alcohol and sweat for Destina, no?

She agreed to meet here anyway. The café wasn’t busy, but it looked like everyone’s favourite. Soft music played on a scratch CD, and the creams and pastels screamed the 1980s, especially the white and black checkerboard floors.

Christ, I got a headache, and as time passed, nothing was helping. A server in a yellow uniform and baby pink apron stopped near the table. “¡Buenas noches!, and welcome to Casa Soleada. Soy Diana. I will be taking your order today.” I look up to a dark-skinned girl, her curls wild and free around her oval face.

[Good evening!, and welcome to Casa Soleada. I am Diana.]

I opened my mouth to decline when I remembered Destina likes their mango milkshake and Pastel Gloria or whatever the fuck they call it.

She looks defeated, and I stop her. I place that order, and she beams like I’ve made her day. I roll my eyes at such excitement. She and Destina would make great friends or perhaps partners in crime.

“Christ.” I was so tired. I got here first when the aircraft landed. I lifted my hand and ran it down my face. The stubble on my jaw pricks my palm, and my hands drop to my pockets, searching for my phone.

Thinking of the trouble Destina could get herself in made my blood boil. I didn’t want to shout at her because she’d only cry. I couldn’t even use a firm tone on her. Christ, her mother, had spoiled her, although they weren’t rich.

Five per cent, the phone showed. I click the candy app regardless and relax as the soft, familiar music starts. The girl returned with the order, and I sent her away with 40,000 pesos. Of course, she took it and said nothing. Everyone tried making a living, especially now that the GDP struggled to climb the ladder.

Eventually, the phone stopped chanting sweet, divine and sugar crush. Where the fuck was Destina? It was noon, and I had to conduct business in Buenaventura in the evening. The last thing I want to do is be late to see a drug lord, especially when he invited you to have his expensive alcohol and smoke his finest cigar.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Mel—because she has melanin—spoke, her head peeking from the top pages of her ruined novel. “You’ve sat here for half an hour, and that smoothie has turned warm and watery and your food cold.”
I ignore her and watch my wrist. Twelve Fifty-three, the hands on the watch worked. “You tipped buena, so I can heat your pastel if that’s okay.” She closes her book, and I plop the pastry into my mouth.

I ignored the sweetness and how delicious this was and swallowed it. Mel plops back into her seat. I then took the smoothie and downed it. She picks up her book, covers her face, and her shoulders shake. The little shit was laughing at me.

It looks like a woman stood me up. Didn’t it? The man with the tattoos, money, and barely-there patience couldn’t get a woman on a date. In my defence, my phone was off. “You have a cable del cargador?” Her brows hike up in a firm arch.