Jazmin

Chapter 1. Part 1

Jazmin woke up drenched in sweat, her black hair tangled in her curls that decorated her head like spiderwebs. She looked at herself in the mirror, she had always loved the way her body looked, voluptuous, unapologetic. She was thirty-two now, but she looked younger, her eyes, too big for her face, gave her an angelic look that made her look like she was in her mid-twenties. She woke up tired of the day awaiting her. The perpetual heat, the deafening noise and the scarcity of hope had all become part of her daily life. But today was different. 

She had her coffee as usual, strong, and black with a splash of cream but with no sugar. She had never understood the obsession of the island with sugar. The amount that she received for the month, one pound for the household of six, was more than enough to fulfill all their needs. She sold the rest to her neighbors who never seemed to have enough of the white drug

. As she drank her coffee, she tried to imagine how she would survive the day. Yesterday Pablo had called her, desperate, to tell her that he was in jail. She hadn't heard of him for the last six months, not a word, not a phone call. Nothing. They had been together- on and off- for the last six years. He needed her to go see him. It was important- he said on the brief phone call- Negra, please. Jazmin was tired, she had given him the best six years of her life, she felt weak when she heard his voice again as if the air had suddenly escaped her room and she was about to float, to surrender to the gravity of his love. She didn't make him any promises. 

She could imagine plenty of reasons for his imprisonment. Pablo was always in trouble, he stole from his job, sold illegal alcohol and had a clandestine bakery. But she knew that none of this was serious enough to send him to jail. She finished her coffee and got dressed in the same flower dress that she wore yesterday, fed the dogs and went to her job. She felt frustrated being a third-grade teacher, her job had become useless. When she was younger and naïve, she dreamed of being an educator, but now all the children dreamed of becoming an immigrant and none of them cared about learning their multiplication tables. The ten dollars that she earned every month weren't enough to convince them of the lie that if they studied hard enough, they would feel happy and excited to contribute to their society. She certainly didn't. 

She finished work, still unsure of what to do, but she thought that if she were to obtain some closure, she had to talk to Pablo at least one last time. She got on the bus to the prison, remembering the last six years in painstaking detail.