We were lovers in a dangerous time. There was disease in the water, rebels in the hills and a madman in the Presidential Palace. I drank gin and stale tonic. She drank whiskey spiked with Fernet-Branca. We barricaded ourselves in a fourth floor hotel room behind pillows and under blankets. We passed the time by making love and not speaking. This morning the mortars in the hills landed closer and the gunfire in the street grew more frequent. At dawn, she’d smoked the last cigarette in the hotel. Now, she was growing nervous. “Is this the end?” she asked. “Our end?” “The end?” “Maybe.” “I just realized how young I am.” “Yes. We’re both young.” “You’re not nearly as young as me.” “True.” “Am I too young?” “In another time, you would be too young.” “This place ages people.” “Yes, this place ages people.” “Is this the end?” I went to the window. A Toyota bounced down the street. The back was piled with men holding Kalashnikovs, AKs and ARs. They stopped in front of the bodega I bought my tamales from. One of the men climbed from the bed of the pick-up, threw something, jumped back into the truck and it sped away. A few moments later the bodega exploded. There was no need for that. Luis, the owner, and Pilar, his wife, and his three children left last week with the Marines. “Is this the end?” she repeated. “Yes, this is the end. Get dressed. We’re going.”
Posted on: Sun, 07 Jul 2013 13:09:57 +0000
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