The Soup and Sorrow Digest

Change

There was the hallowed hour of night, when the stars dared to shine their feeble light through the purulent haze, when buildings wavered in the moonless dark like frightened totems, when few cars passed by, when the trivial and the mundane had been frittered away, when you were most alone with your pain and with your triumph. 

Standing in front of Elena’s door, Ricardo refrained from knocking. It felt too complicated to dig through his pocket for keys. Breathlessly, he imagined Elena, who upon seeing his rusty-colored eyes, exploding into a confetti of worry.

But the door opened itself, and there was Carlos, in an Italian suit and white tshirt, examining the length and the width of him, his black shiny eyes ravenous with intensity.

“Where have you been?”

Ricardo swallowed hard, lumbering past him for the nearest seat at the ochre-stained table. “Is Elena already asleep?”

Carlos banged the door shut. “Where have you been? Eduardo was thinking the cops had picked you up.”

Ricardo took in the cramped comforts of the apartment then thought somberly about ‘the plan’, its unforgiving roadmap that cared not one bit for his cares. A exhausting groan escaped from his lips, “Nothing happened, Carlos. No cops, nada.”

Ricardo could see the gears turning behind Carlos’ sharp eyes, cranking and squeaking out calculations to paranoia and greed. Carlos’ lips tightened in a slight smile. “Julio called me the other day. Said, you’ve been helping yourself to what’s mine.”

With unfocused effort, Ricardo dug into his pocket and splayed the blood-encrusted razor, the crumpled two hundred dollars in tens, an unopened pack of tamarind sweets onto the table. “Is that it? I and Felipe have been looking for the mofo and he comes directly to you?” Ricardo laughed disgustingly without care for the sharp stabs of pain in his ribs. “Is there something else I should know about? Like when exactly you’re going to turn on me?”

“You tell me.  You take romantic walks at two in the morning. Leaving Elena to fend for herself against Night Stalkers.”

“She’s a grown woman. I’m not her fucking bodyguard.”

“Is that what you think?” Carlos’ timbre was that of a low growl. Before Ricardo could think something of his tall dark presence, he patted his head, tickled through the thick matted strands.  And just as Ricardo was allowing himself to construe the rough handling as caring, the hands turned savaged, gripping then snatching, pulling tight his hair like he would tear it off and toss it into a fire.

“Leave off!” Ricardo shrugged it off violently, but Carlos had full control, twisted the head aside and muttered into his ear, “You’re living off me. And you will not talk to me like your boy fucks. You fucking understand me?”

“Ow, leave off.”

“Me entiendes?”

Ricardo howled some more instead, sending Elena from her bedroom, in a tank top and sleep shorts, scurrying and shaking the cheap foundations of the apartment. Her mouth yawned wide to the sight of Carlos manhandling his bloody head.

Carlos, scarcely acknowledging her ballooning eyes, bounced the head strongly over the table before proceeding to wipe his muddy bloody hands on Ricardo’s shoulders.

“We were having a little lover’s quarrel.”

Ricardo looked up to him, commanding, amative, and utterly unconvincing in his smiling attempt to seem understanding. He barely had time to scoff before Elena rushed to him, her eyes rippling with tears.