Pure Belleza | ✔️

(18)

Dishes were thrown into the dishwasher. The faucet tap thudded whenever Amalia turned it on so hard I thought it was going to come clean off.

She moved around the kitchen in silence, only occasionally muttering in Spanish when something didn't go right.

Such as having enough room in the fridge to put the leftovers. Or running out of tinfoil to wrap up the bowl she made me to take home. I did what I could to help but it didn't seem to soothe her much.

She murmured another string of what sounded to be Spanish obscenities. I heard the word mierda which I had discovered meant 'shit'. I leaned against the counter top while she jabbed the buttons on the dishwasher.

"I thought there was a rule tonight? English only?"

The grin I wore didn't seem to go over well when she stood up straight and scowled.

"Let's go for a walk?" I suggested. "You could use some fresh air."

"Could I now?"

I ignored the bite in her tone and took her hand, lacing our fingers together.

My hand was bandaged but it wasn't sore like it was earlier so it didn't bother me when she held it tight. 

One thing I knew about women was that they had the need to talk. But you had to listen. Like listen hard enough that you could word for word repeat the conversation in a presentation with stats, notes and a summary.

Full disclosure, I have a hard time listening to the pointless rambling of most females I've encountered.

But I want her to confide and let me know what's upset her so much. So we stepped outside, our hands still intertwined and we cut across the front lawn and onto the footpath.

We just walked for a few minutes. All of the homes in her neighborhood had pristine cut lawns and white picket fences.

It was almost generic. The brick homes with shutters and straight hedges. Amalia's home was unique though. Bright and colourful with odd sculptures and outrageous colours. It suited their nature and expressed their individuality.

We'd been walking about five minutes when she sighed. The wind whipped her long dark hair behind her.

It was just a light breeze but it was enough to make her shiver. So I dropped her hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in tight.

The thing with the weather in Dallas was that it could be sweltering hot one night and chilled the next.

"That wasn't what I'd planned for tonight," she mumbled.

There was a sheltered bus stop a few feet ahead, so I didn't bother answering her until I sat down on the seat, out of the wind and pulled her down into my lap.

"Don't stress," I told her, clasping my hands in front of her stomach. "The food was good. You're beautiful. It's not a big deal."

She twisted so that her legs draped over mine and she sat side on. She looked so heartbroken. I wasn't used to seeing that drop in her lip or glisten in her gaze.

She stared down at her lap. "Dad can't help himself sometimes. As soon as mom comes up, it's just a rabbit hole he can't get out of."

Sometimes I felt physical anger over the fact I inherited Dad's dumb sense of humor.

Because having a brain that concocted an automatic response like, 'yeah my Dad falls into my Mom's rabbit hole all the time too' was not helpful.

It was tempting to take the risk and hope she'd laugh. But then I thought better of it and decided to just wait until she elaborated.