Page 169 of Raspados & Regret

A phone appears over the counter, complete with the flash on, in the hand of some teenager with braces, and they say, “Can you guys do the thing?”

Elías blinks. “The thing?”

“You know.” She waves between us. “Argue.”

I stare at her, and Elías leans on the counter. “Mija, we don’t perform on command.”

“Yes, you do,” Anita says from behind us, walking up with Fatima on her hip and Julio trailing behind with a stroller, two bags, and the face of a man who has accepted his place in the universe.

Elías points at her. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m always helping.”

“You’re always committing domestic terrorism.”

Fatima reaches for my chain, so I step closer and let her grab the pendant. “Hey, gordita.”

She grunts at me.

“She says you’re whipped,” Anita says.

“She said no such thing.” I hold out my arms, and she reaches for me. Anita passes her over with a look of relief. “You got the baby carrier? I could put her on my back for a little bit, you know, give you a break.”

“Yeah, let me grab it.” She says it, then starts rummaging through the stroller, producing a black baby carrier that she helps her daughter into on my back.

All while Julio looks at the menu. “Can I get a ‘No Regrets’ special?”

Elías side-eyes him. “Can you read the menu?”

Julio closes his eyes, and Anita cackles. I turn away because I don’t want to laugh. Even Fatima giggles on my back. The teenager gets her video, but it’s not because we perform on command. No, it's because Elías’s sister has no respect for peace.

Julio says, “Actually, make that two.”

“Careful, don’t strain yourself,” Elías says, already grabbing another cup.

“Man, I hate this family.”

Anita spins around and says, “You married in; you don’t like it? File for divorce. Good luck with reading all the paperwork.”

Junior yells, “A voluntary victim,” from the cooler.

The video is probably viral before the raspados melt.

At nine, the rush finally slows; the sky is dark now, and the market is all lights and noise and warm bodies moving between booths. My shirt clings to my back because Fatima is a straight-up heater when she’s asleep. My hands are sticky, and Elías has a smear of chamoy near his thumb, one I’ve been watching for ten minutes like a man with no dignity.

He notices and instead of licking it off himself, because he has apparently developed restraint just to spite me, he walks over and holds his hand out.

I look at it, then at him. He says nothing, just waits for me to do what he knows I’m dying to do. I grab his wrist and lift his hand to my mouth, and his breath catches before my tongue touches his skin.

There are phones.

People.

Family.

God.

Whatever.