Page 167 of Raspados & Regret

Mine.

The girls order three No Regrets specials and two mango raspados with extra chamoy. Elías makes them fast, charming, and bright, talking with his hands like he was born in front of an audience. I take payments, hand out napkins, refill lids, and try not to look at him too much.

I fail; I always fail.

He catches me staring while he adds lechera to a cup, and his brow lifts.

I mouth, “Shorts.”

He looks down at himself, then back at me, innocent as a crime scene.

I shake my head and mouth again, “They’re gonna get you fucked, nene.”

“You won’t,” he says out loud and then bends over right in front of me.

Little bastard.

He’s getting it for sure when we get home.

When seven rolls around, the market is packed. Everything glows under the soft string lights. Phone screens, the black frames of Elías’s glasses, the silver chain around his neck, and the ring on my thumb.

Even the key on Elías’s keychain that opens our apartment door. He moved in officially in March. Unofficially, Elías started moving in last September when he left a toothbrush at my place and then accused me of being “weirdly territorial about counter space” because I didn’t throw it away. In October, half his clothes were in my dresser. By November, his lime-shaped ring dish had firmly planted itself next to his phone charger on his side of the bed.

Come December, his mother sent over a Christmas tin full of cookies labeled “Para los dos,” and my tía gave him socks because she said his little shorts made her cold just looking at him. Then in March, Elías stood in my living room with three boxes, two laundry baskets, and one plant he swore was not dead, just “emotionally seasonal,” and said, “So are we doing this or are you going to keep pretending I don’t live here?”

“The fuck are you talking about,” I said, “You already live here.”

He said, “That was not romantic.”

I said, “I’ve had half the closet cleared out for months now.”

He cried and will deny that until death.

I have photographic evidence.

No one knows about the photo except me because I enjoy living, breathing, and waking up with my body parts attached.

Now, we’re in July, and he has the nerve to stand in our booth wearing tiny yellow shorts like he didn’t already win. As if he still needs to campaign. Like the entire market, both our families, and God himself haven’t already accepted that Elías Cárdenas is mine and I’m terminally stupid about it.

A customer steps up and orders an agua de jamaica and two elotes. I turn to grab cups, and Elías slips behind me, hand brushing my lower back. It’s not an accidental touch. One second of brief contact and my nervous system lights up like a Christmas tree.

I look over my shoulder, and he keeps walking like he did nothing. The yellow shorts are starting to look more and more like a hate crime.

“Papi,” he calls without turning around, “we need more mango.”

A woman in line gasps, and I stare at the back of his head. “Don’t call me that at work.”

He turns slowly, with his eyebrow raised. The whole line goes quiet like the market itself knows better than to miss this.

“Sorry,” he says, too sweet. “What should I call you at work?”

Junior whispers, “This is fucking cinema right here.”

I keep my face blank. “Fabián.”

“Okay, Fabián.”

I hate that more, and he knows.