Friday
3:30PM, Monterrey, Mexico
By half past three on Friday afternoon, Cristina had one patient left; then the clinic would be a memory.
She would not rush.
There was time.
She scanned the street below her office. It was busy in its usual, subdued way: people moving with intention, cars double-parked, a woman lingering beside a fashion display longer than necessary.
A white van sat two doors down, in front of Esmeralda’s grocery. Yesterday it had been outside the bank. Maybe it was Joaquín’s. Insufferable obsessive perfeccionista. He was eager, he tried. But it never made up for it. All she had to do was mix up his tools and he’d go nuclear—at least that was funny.
She smirked and let the thought go.
The back window overlooked the narrow parking lot and the alley beyond it. Only the staff’s cars were there. Nothing new.
On her way downstairs she called the rental company, mashing the hash key until the automated voice relented by transferring her to a tired-sounding man. In the kitchen, she started coffee and gave a name, the address, confirmed her booking, specified the alley and the rear lot. He confirmed four-thirty, assured a Ford Bronco.
Her first coffee delivery interrupted Alberto, midway through examining Mrs. Pérez—retired, faintly snobbish but nice—who piped up about matchmaking and a lawyer. Cristina laughed softly. Alberto tapped his reflex hammer against the woman’s knee and smiled his thanks.
She carried a second cup across the hallway to Adriana.
“Mind-reader,” she said, accepting it without looking up. “When are you heading off?”
“Last patient’s at four.”
“We’re booked till six.”
Cristina nodded. “Security firm here by five-thirty, please, Doc.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Cristina lingered. “I mean it,” she almost sang.
Adriana smiled, glancing up. “I know.” She tilted her head. “Nice plans?”
“Driving out to the foundation school. See the kiddies.”
“Sweet,” Adriana said. “Meet a nice teacher?”
Cristina smiled. “They’re all nice.” After a beat she added, lightly, “And I’ve met them all.”
Adriana’s laugh rose with her eyebrow. “Have a good weekend, hun.”
Cristina stuck out her tongue in reply. “You too. Hug Miguel and the babies for me.”
In her office, she sipped coffee with eyes closed, savouring how flavour evolved: rich sweetness from cream and sugar gave way to bitter strength. From a pocket in her tote bag she took out a simple phone and slid her smartphone into its place. Coffee drained, she headed downstairs. Along the hall, Juana was sorting paperwork at the reception desk.
“I’m popping out,” Cristina said, waving without stopping. “You want something sweet?”
Juana’s face brightened. “Always.”
She abandoned the clinic’s air conditioning via the back exit and jogged in the afternoon heat along the alley’s growing shadows toward the western end of the block, stopping next to dumpsters at the back corner of Gilbert’s old department store. The trash reeked of sickly rotting fruit, wood shavings, and something like fish sauce on spoiled meat. Her breathing stilled. She pushed the battery in and powered up the phone.
Two messages—buzzing in at once—were read carefully for tone. She typed a reply, deleted it. Typed another. Sent the third.
Sorry for delay. Back to back all day. Yes, still free. Maybe eight? I’ll pick somewhere in Centro. X
Thirty seconds till the reply. A brief flicker of anticipation that used to be stronger.
Battery out. Phone away.
On the street she merged into the afternoon flow and passed in front of Gilbert’s—newly refurbished and bustling in mid-season sale—to pick up a scent trail of buttery sugar and cinnamon that triggered instant hunger. At Panadería de Ensueño bakery she bought enough goodies for everyone and returned the way she had come with a warm box that leaked vanilla. Juana received it with visible pleasure.
“Gracias!”
Cristina smiled. “Happy Friday! Don’t forget security.”
“I promise.”
Outside, a dumpy woman in a striped vest, denim skirt and flip flops brought a little boy in boxy jeans and plain white sneakers to the clinic door. His face was pink and shiny, his expression solemn and uncertain. Cristina smiled immediately and waved as the door slid open.
“Hola, mamá Fabi! Hola, mi amor!” Fabiola was met with a hug.
“Hola, Doctor Crissie. Little one’s all fevered. Thank God the aircon in the bus was working! You look so nice, we missed you.”
Cristina sank to a knee and Pablo’s gaze drew across her, his pinkish hue deepening as his grip on his mother’s hand tightened. A palm pressed on his forehead. Fingers caressed from behind his ears, under his jaw and down his neck.
“Oh, Pabi! Hot but not from the sun, eh?” He shook his head. His grip relaxed. “Come on, we’ll make you better.”
She swept him up and seated him in the crook of her arm, his weight registering like a child half his size.
The boy’s fever was uncomplicated. Cristina examined him thoroughly anyway head to foot, watching the way he followed instructions. No joint issues, no persistent rashes. She washed her hands beside him, praising his carefulness. Fabiola spoke about the bus, about the heat, about work. Cristina listened, nodding, asking questions. When there was a lull, she crushed half a paracetamol into cold milk for Pablo and brought juice for his mother, then pulled some sheets of paper from a cabinet.
“For later,” she said gently, handing them over with a box of generic drugs and supplements. “You both take the supplements every day. The others are all explained there, always good to have.” She waved the back of her hand as Fabiola reached for her bag.
To the boy she said, “Can you read a little for me?” He did, carefully, proudly, about washing hands, being clean, drinking good fluids and eating fresh food, from a sheet she held up. His eyes were dark and bright, his right one tinged pink, its lid and side smeared with a little dirt. Cristina wiped down his face, rinsed his eye with saline then put him on the scales. Fine for an eight-year-old.
A vibration in her bag announced four-thirty. The black Bronco was out back, clean and tall. The young man with the keys was polite, watchful. In the car she gave a license for the paperwork and declined the tour with a smile. His buttoned-up polo shirt hid how far his tacky tattoo sleeve spread across his torso. He walked away into the alley. She reached below the steering wheel, opened the fuse panel and pulled two fuses—red and yellow. She popped the hood, went out, lifted it with one hand to access the engine fuse box and pulled one red fuse, then closed the hood and locked the car.
Inside, Pablo lay curled on the examination bed. Cristina sent them to wait in the Bronco with a bag of cakes. She tidied her desk, shut down the computer, gave her hair a brisk, firm brushing. With her tote and a loaded duffel bag shouldered, she headed out shouting “Ciao!” then cracked the trunk and peeled the rental company stickers from the back windshield and fenders. Her bags went behind her seat. Pablo’s dangling leg was squeezed. She drove.
An hour with them and things in Saltillo would be fine. Five minutes in Hernández grocery for a big box and two full bags that were slung in the trunk. On the way to their place in Topo Chico, Cristina made Fabiola read the papers about fevers and relief and when to get help.
“We’ve always got someone on call, Fabi. Any time.”
The Bronco seemed to make their tiny home look smaller. She let them out in front of it then swung the car across to park opposite and brought the box and bags of groceries into their little unit sandwiched between more in a gapless row. Grills on every window and door kept thieves out of places that had nothing worth taking except life. Fabiola put up a fight as the supplies filled her little counter. Cristina waved her hand in a kind of dismissal.
“Food is medicine, Fabi. For you both.” She checked Pablo’s temperature. “You wanna cool down now?” The air in the kitchen was stale and humid. “Let mama give you a little shower, Pabi, then you can read me a story.”
Fabiola didn’t resist. She reached for Cristina’s hands but her gesture was easy to turn into a lingering hug. To the sound of water and soft talk, Cristina worked in the kitchen. The edge of evening drew shouts, engine noise and catcalls into the street.
Pablo filled her heart with his perfect reading of The Giant and the Dwarf, then they filled their bellies with chicken. Beneath their talk, Cristina thought about differences that could be made in three months. She parked her questions and ideas. Attention on the child.
“So proud of you, Pablito! You read better than ten-year-olds. Such a lovely voice. That’s one of my favourite stories.”
His back straightened.
When Fabiola was in the bathroom, Cristina stroked the boy’s hair, then took his chubby hand.
“You always keep reading, always keep clean hands, look after your mami. I'll help you become a good doctor,” she whispered, winking. She kissed the top of his head. “You know who has dirty hands?”
His eyebrows rose, eyes grew, mouth curled down. He shook his head.
“Sicarios, asesinos, criminales,” she hissed in his ear. His hand pulled. She gripped it. Her eyes locked his. A slow shake of her head. She let him go, tussled his hair and smiled the smile that felt kind.
She kissed them both as she made to leave with two dishes cooking in the oven, soup on the stove, the fridge and cupboards fuller. Beyond the window bars, a cholo leaned on the Bronco’s hood, talking in showy slang to three less showy girls. She went out, turned right, and walked until the imposing car blocked sight of the wannabe gangster. She cut across to its back corner, moving lightly on the balls of her feet. Beside the driver’s door, she unlocked the car, slid in, locked it again and spun the engine. The cholo had barely turned his head before she pulled away and headed straight back to the clinic to circle its block. It was just after six. A private security car sat outside the clinic. A guard with a shaved head and large ears was visible at reception. The white van was still there.
She took local roads west-southwest to leave Monterrey behind. From her bag she pulled a music player and unwound the wired earbuds. After eight songs she would send the meeting location; within fifteen she would be there with time to spare.
Saltillo. Zona Centro.
Hotel La Gloria Mesón looked like an eighteenth-century governor’s residence renovated in white and pale blue stucco, low, square. Dark wooden shutters and iron grilles covered the street-facing windows and doors. It wanted to be noticed but kept out prying eyes. Attractive figures waited behind the front desk.
“Welcome, Miss Benecitas. Your first time with us?”
Cristina nodded. The receptionist had straight dark hair parted in the centre and pulled tight, then braided and coiled at the back of her head. Soft blue eye shadow, careful brows. Green contact lenses on dark eyes were unreal.
“I’m here for anything you need. Just come or call.” Alessia sounded sincere through her pretty smile.
“I will.”
A lack of luggage left Alessia’s overtanned hipster colleague shifting side-to-side, insecure under the brief weight of her smiling stare.
The hotel was a pattern of courtyards with fourteen rooms spread around them. The layout cut sight lines short. The place felt like someone who had manners and spent money on classic, fitted clothes, and just a few items of good jewellery.
Her room looked onto an enclosed flower garden. The shutters and the windows she left open to draw in a scent of lavender and floral sweetness. The temperature and smell sparked memory of a park in Botswana where she’d been dwarfed by nature. Flashes of vista, red soil, distant hills that conjured clouds from nowhere.
She showered quickly as her “ST” playlist pumped through her portable speaker. The first track, Crush by Allan Rayman, sent her into rhythmic gyrations that occasionally tracked across or lingered in front of the full-length mirror. Her hair remained clear of the water. In minutes, tanned olive skin that still ran taut was dry, scented and dusted. She painted her lips two tones darker, her eyes just darker still. A light grey, sleeveless blouse was open to midway, over tight black jeans. On the back of her blouse, on the centre line, was a button and a loop. She reached and fastened it. The blouse went taut, underlining her bosom while setting the material below in its own subtle A-line. Around her throat she wound a silver-grey chiffon scarf.
She found the evening’s rendezvous, Guillermo, easily and unnoticed, under the olive tree in the bar’s courtyard. He wore a creased suit loosened over a dark shirt. A short drink in hand. Some silver in dark hair, clean shaven.
She watched from within shadows at the dead corner of the courtyard. Settled on a wide stone bench, he jolted in response to his phone’s twittering ringtone.
Key account… impatient… worthwhile... occasional inconvenience were terms he offered to appease demands from the other end of the line. He switched when he said It’s a phase, I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Near the end he was nearly whispering No need to, it’ll be late, as a gentle corrective instruction to an equal. Instead of goodbye, he said a soft Me too.
She charted the longest route around the courtyard’s perimeter, off her heels, in and out of the shadows cast by the piers of its arched colonnade. He spotted her at halfway and tracked with unbroken gaze. She didn’t look at him until she’d come all the way around and was fully backlit by the bar.
“Lucia?”
A nod. Slow pace towards him, model-like, a coy smile curling more with each step.
“Buenas noches, Guillermo.”
His mouth split into a broad smile. Middle management teeth. They air kissed. He gestured. They sat.
“I can see why you have such a… mysterious profile. You would have so many more matches—every man matching you! For anyone to meet you would just come down to probability.”
An indirect, pompous compliment. Unpractised.
She gave an amused sigh, holding his gaze high with her own. “Left, right,” she motioned swiping with her thumb, “it’s always fifty fifty, sí?”
“Ah-ha! For you, somehow I really doubt it.” He wagged his finger in disagreement then reached out his hand, signalling for service.
Wine came. She smoked. He did too once offered.
The indented flesh of his ring finger was his most amateur tell. Mostly he talked, mostly she listened. After a while she shifted them to comfier seats at the bar’s outer periphery, within a field of easy but tasteful jazz. He was older than his photos, in decent shape. Clean hands.
He talked about work, about things he owned. He did not ask much back. She played along with his insinuations of a boat, good seats at some horse race, a famous client. The fit of his summer suit left room for a little peacock’s feathers.
She adjusted posture, pointed toes, curled hair, sustained gaze.
“Do you know this place?” she asked and pressed her foot against his calf.
“No, but it’s handsome. A great choice. You have good taste, Lucia, in wine as well.”
“There’s a pretty pool somewhere, other little gardens.” She rose, took a couple of steps, turned back. “Come see. Bring our wine.” He made to follow.
In her room, she refilled their glasses. He sat. She stood leaning back against the wardrobe next to the bathroom. He finally enquired about her affairs in Saltillo. A story about farming supply sales out of Mexico City hit the right balance of convenience and banality that ended further enquiry.
She asked how much free time he had between his earlier declared commitments.
“Enough for someone, sometimes.”
“Kids? How much time do they need?”
“Just two. They take care of themselves these days. Always busy in the evenings.”
“Keeping busy…” she gazed down at him, “…is good.”
At the bathroom threshold she beckoned, set her ST playlist running and ran the shower.
Three songs later, hair coiled in a towel, she became the peacock, displaying for him on the bed. She threw her little bottle of lube at him as an instruction to reciprocate and fanned wider.
His eagerness was too quiet, too wide-eyed, then he glanced away towards the open window, its shutters still splayed.
“No,” was all it took to pull Guillermo back in. She rolled over to reward him.
When his phone rang, he hesitated. She said nothing.
It rang again.
Again.
“Answer it,” she instructed. He gestured. Rhythm died, then music.
He went into the bathroom, pulling the door closed as though it would block something. Reality had already invaded. A clatter and a curse told of slippery hands. Her finger hovered as she weighed starting her playlist again just to hear him cope.
A minute of lies that couldn’t be whispered slid through the door, then he returned as a small morsel with rounded shoulders.
“Twenty minutes won’t change anything, my little pigeon,” she said, and patted the bed beside her. She held him in ways that made him endure. The overwhelming mechanics of her satisfaction were written in his face and his noise. She made him louder to make herself stronger.
Afterwards, she locked herself in the bathroom until he’d gone. She’d deliberately, thoroughly scented him. The price she levied that time. She imagined where he might get another shower at that time. Her damp hair was slicked with product to keep a wet look that she made aggressive with stronger eye detail, a hint of contour and lip liner. She shut off the lights and lay down with earphones in. Lavender breeze and gentle warmth caressed her.
Blackness.
She remembered feeling a circle traced around her, beyond her sight. Golden eyes full of secrets watched alone, not lonely. The smell and weight of shared breath.
Twenty minutes later she carried a Negroni from the bar to the lobby. Alessia was still in attendance at the desk.
“Can you please advise me? Where to go?”
“What are you looking for, Miss Benecitas?”
Those greenish eyes held her gaze and tracked when it descended.
“Engaging entertainment to fill a Friday.”