The morning streets are very quiet, as if everyone is inside their homes, having
breakfast with their loved ones who have died. At the bus stop for the Ruta #4, a
young man and a woman wait. It doesn’t seem like they have any dead loved ones to
breakfast with. They see me approaching, and wish that I wasn’t.
“Come onnnn,” wheedles the young man, “we had something. Don’t deny it.” The young
woman stares intently down the street. No ruta. She smoothes back her hair. For
a moment, no cars go down Avenida J.H. Preciado. I hear the squeaky gears of the
tortilla machine across the street.
The young man pulls a small skeleton head made out of sugar from his shirt pocket.
“It’s for you,” he says, offering it with an open hand. “I know you like them.”
She laughs. The Ruta #4 pulls up. She lets him pay. They sit in the back of the
bus, holding sugar-speckled hands.