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Authors: Chloe Blaque
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and I and Josie went to LA. Enter Josie Pink.”
“Did you three always keep in touch?”
“Yeah. Josie likes to surface when there is trouble. And there is always trouble.” He says the latter under his breath, inspecting our surroundings.
“It must be different to come here now,” I say, stopping myself from going any further about Josie. I promised.
“I still come here often. It changes over and over again. The architecture is alive.”
Alive . Like his facial expressions as he explains the area’s Mexican history. He takes my hand during our exploration, and I let him keep it. We stop on a street corner by a popular restaurant and stare up at the graffiti-covered building.
I turn to him. “Evan, are you a closet artist or something?”
“No, I don’t sketch much anymore.” His expression darkens. “I used to want to be an architect.”
I stay quiet, giving his hand a small squeeze as he continues.
“When my father left us, my mother took on two jobs to support my sisters and me,” he says. “Enough money was scraped together to put me through college. My uncle had a small law practice and offered to give me a job right out of school. It was a sure thing. Creative arts weren’t encouraged.”
I hate the sadness in his voice. Or is it regret? I want to console him the way I would a lover. Kiss his lips and rub his back, tell him his creativity can’t be taken away by a law degree. But I shake it off, reminding myself that we aren’t lovers. That technically I have a boyfriend I haven’t quite broken up with yet, and I’m supposed to write a gossip story about Evan’s very good friends. Instead I offer up something of myself.
“No one cared what I went to school for. My parents passed away when I was a kid. My father’s mother raised me, and her goal for me was to meet a husband and have babies.” I take his arm, and we begin a slow pace down the street, which is darkening as the sun begins its set into the hills.
“I could have gotten a degree in underwater basket weaving for all she cared.” That gets a chuckle out of him. “I came out of school with the husband, but that didn’t work out.”
“How long were you married?”
“Just a few years.”
“Any kids?”
“No.” I swallow, wondering why it’s always so hard to admit that.
After a short pause, he speaks. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Thank you,” is all I can say as we fall into our own thoughts and only the crunch of our sneakers remains.
I look down at our feet stepping in unison: his black high-tops and my silver ones. I gaze at our locked arms—my brown fingers snake around his white arm. Maybe all the art has gone to my head, but I notice that he and I are full of contrasting colors that act as a complement when set against each other. My mouth goes dry when I think of all of him laid out next to all of me. When I glance at his face, I am surprised to see him watching me. Caught, I smile an apology and quickly look away.
We stroll a few more blocks to a heavily populated area filled with music and restaurants. Evan keeps me close as we thread through the crowds. We stop in front of what looks like a small shack with a cardboard menu posted outside. In perfect Spanish, he greets the man and woman at the counter, who seem happy to see him.
“Hungry? These are the best tacos in the city,” Evan says.
“Mmm, let’s do it. I love tacos,” I say, slipping away toward the menu. My body is pulsating, and I need some distance. I don’t want to want him so much. Caring about him will interfere with what I know I have to do.
Evan comes up behind me as I read the menu. “Are you sure you are okay with this?” he asks. “It’s not a place I usually take a date.”
“Why?” I ask over my shoulder. “The music, the people; there is romance here.”
“The last girl I brought here didn’t think so.”
“Let me guess. She was a model slash actress, and her stilettos got stuck in the street
“Did you three always keep in touch?”
“Yeah. Josie likes to surface when there is trouble. And there is always trouble.” He says the latter under his breath, inspecting our surroundings.
“It must be different to come here now,” I say, stopping myself from going any further about Josie. I promised.
“I still come here often. It changes over and over again. The architecture is alive.”
Alive . Like his facial expressions as he explains the area’s Mexican history. He takes my hand during our exploration, and I let him keep it. We stop on a street corner by a popular restaurant and stare up at the graffiti-covered building.
I turn to him. “Evan, are you a closet artist or something?”
“No, I don’t sketch much anymore.” His expression darkens. “I used to want to be an architect.”
I stay quiet, giving his hand a small squeeze as he continues.
“When my father left us, my mother took on two jobs to support my sisters and me,” he says. “Enough money was scraped together to put me through college. My uncle had a small law practice and offered to give me a job right out of school. It was a sure thing. Creative arts weren’t encouraged.”
I hate the sadness in his voice. Or is it regret? I want to console him the way I would a lover. Kiss his lips and rub his back, tell him his creativity can’t be taken away by a law degree. But I shake it off, reminding myself that we aren’t lovers. That technically I have a boyfriend I haven’t quite broken up with yet, and I’m supposed to write a gossip story about Evan’s very good friends. Instead I offer up something of myself.
“No one cared what I went to school for. My parents passed away when I was a kid. My father’s mother raised me, and her goal for me was to meet a husband and have babies.” I take his arm, and we begin a slow pace down the street, which is darkening as the sun begins its set into the hills.
“I could have gotten a degree in underwater basket weaving for all she cared.” That gets a chuckle out of him. “I came out of school with the husband, but that didn’t work out.”
“How long were you married?”
“Just a few years.”
“Any kids?”
“No.” I swallow, wondering why it’s always so hard to admit that.
After a short pause, he speaks. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Thank you,” is all I can say as we fall into our own thoughts and only the crunch of our sneakers remains.
I look down at our feet stepping in unison: his black high-tops and my silver ones. I gaze at our locked arms—my brown fingers snake around his white arm. Maybe all the art has gone to my head, but I notice that he and I are full of contrasting colors that act as a complement when set against each other. My mouth goes dry when I think of all of him laid out next to all of me. When I glance at his face, I am surprised to see him watching me. Caught, I smile an apology and quickly look away.
We stroll a few more blocks to a heavily populated area filled with music and restaurants. Evan keeps me close as we thread through the crowds. We stop in front of what looks like a small shack with a cardboard menu posted outside. In perfect Spanish, he greets the man and woman at the counter, who seem happy to see him.
“Hungry? These are the best tacos in the city,” Evan says.
“Mmm, let’s do it. I love tacos,” I say, slipping away toward the menu. My body is pulsating, and I need some distance. I don’t want to want him so much. Caring about him will interfere with what I know I have to do.
Evan comes up behind me as I read the menu. “Are you sure you are okay with this?” he asks. “It’s not a place I usually take a date.”
“Why?” I ask over my shoulder. “The music, the people; there is romance here.”
“The last girl I brought here didn’t think so.”
“Let me guess. She was a model slash actress, and her stilettos got stuck in the street
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