Page 74 of Raspados & Regret

My mom claps once. “Enough! Everybody work.”

So we work.

Or we try to.

Orders come fast. Mango, tamarindo, strawberry-lechera, mango with extra chamoy and candy, piña with Tajín, three aguas de jamaica, two horchatas, one elote with everything, and one with no mayo because joy apparently frightens some people. Fabián takes the payments with his murder face.

The murder face makes people behave for the most part. Except tonight, people are brave.

Social media brave.

Which is the worst kind.

A girl with glossy lips and a phone asks, “Can you guys argue for my video?”

Fabián says, “No.”

I say, “Depends. What’s the topic?”

She screams and Fabián glares at me. I grin at her phone. “Make sure you get his good side.”

“I don’t have a good side,” Fabián sighs, handing her the change.

“That’s not true.” I look him over. “You got at least two.”

Someone in line makes a noise that belongs in church.

Fabián leans close under the noise. “Behave, Lalo.”

I tilt my head. “Are you asking or telling?”

His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a second, the market disappears. It’s like I can almost taste him again.

Then a man at the counter clears his throat.

Tall with broad shoulders.

Pretty.

Maybe around forty, wearing a green A’s cap, a fitted shirt, forearms out, and a smile too confident to be accidental.

“So… what do you recommend?” he asks me, leaning forward a little.

Fabián’s attention snaps to him, and I feel it like heat behind my ear.

Oh, hello, opportunity, my toxic old friend.

I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “Depends. You like sweet or spicy?”

The man's smile widens. “Both, actually.”

Fabián’s hand stills on the tablet, and I can hear his silence.

“Then I’d suggest mango with chamoy,” I say. “Extra Tajín. If you can handle it.”

The man’s gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I can handle spice.”

A paper receipt tears in Fabián’s hand, and I bite the inside of my cheek.