Page 172 of Raspados & Regret

I turn my head. “We’re kinda having a moment.”

“You can have a moment after you sell some aguas y raspados.”

Elías lifts his head. “She’s right.”

I stare at him. “Traitor.”

“Business first, mi amor.”

Mi amor. My chest goes stupid, and it’s like he knows it too, because he smirks.

I point at him. “Don’t use that tone at work.”

“What tone?”

“The one that makes me want to drag you into the trailer.”

His eyes flash. “Again?”

Junior screams, “I heard that!”

My tío says, “Unfortunately, so did I.”

The whole booth erupts, and Elías laughs so hard he has to hold onto my arm. I stand there with my sticky hands, my red ears, my boyfriend laughing against me, my family yelling, his family yelling louder, and a line full of customers watching us like dinner theater with condensed milk.

The market keeps moving, and there’s a kiss stolen near the cooler when family isn’t looking, another behind the table when my tía pretends not to see.

Elías’s shoulder against mine and those yellow shorts.

Those fucking yellow shorts.

They survive the rest of the night only because the law is watching.

The law being my tío.

By the time we close, I have imagined taking them off at least sixteen different ways.

With my teeth.

With one hand.

Ripping them off.

With divine intervention.

He bends too slow when he reaches for the last stack of cups. He stretches too high when he takes the sign down, tank lifting, shorts riding up, skin flashing in the warm market light like he is actively trying to shorten my lifespan.

I stand near the cooler with two bags of trash in my hands and watch him. Fatima is now gone from my back; I know it’s time for a little fun with my boyfriend.

He glances over his shoulder.

Smiles.

That smile says, “Later.”

My dick says, “Now.”

My dignity says nothing because it died sometime around the first No Regrets special.