Manuel met me at the airport – silk white shirt, pressed cabana pants, dark hair
pulled back. A small crowd of people, some holding flowers or handwritten signs, elbowed
for room underneath the baggage claim banner, but Manuel rested on one knee, head
bent. Had I not memorized his figure, the slim line of his six-foot frame, I possibly
would have walked past, unaware of his presence. Pero advertí. Thirty-five days, 16 hours, after he declared he no longer felt
anything but contempt for me, he knelt, prostrating on chipped granite tile. I shifted
my briefcase to my opposite shoulder. Stomach churned. I paused just short of his
wing-tips. “What are you doing here?” I asked. Rising, he said, “I was stupid. Mi amor, perdóneme.” He expected my embrace. “Forgive you for what?” He stepped back. “Para todo, Lupe. Todo.” We stared silent as passengers jostled
around us. Then he leaned in, brushed hand down my face. I should have made him grovel longer, found out who told him I’d be coming home
that day, or at least have him explain what he meant by todo. But I was easily out-done by musky cologne, a clean shave, and cooing. As he glided
his hand into mine, I felt the paint specks trapped in the folds of his knuckles.
He’s working. By the weekend, all my possessions were back in his townhouse, in their designated
spots. Manuel seemed patient, even-tempered. He stocked the kitchen with organic groceries
and installed a mini-shelf in the bathroom for my make-up. He reorganized the garage
for my VW Bug. And yet he sensed not to overdo the romance or to suggest our lives
had not been interrupted. I insisted he leave his workhorse in front of the sliding
patio doors, knowing the patio would be inaccessible. Manuel hadn’t finished a sculpture
in three years, not since the show in Malibu our friend Valerie had arranged as a
favor. Evenings out with expensive dinners and elaborate wines lasted 10 days until
our digestive systems tired of rich food. Spontaneous moments of public affection,
like un besito during a volleyball game, continued for 7 weeks and 3 days. Make-up
sex was spiritual for 2 months; after that, a bit routine. Not that we could not call
forth ancestral connections; we had on more than one occasion. Our friends, particularly Val, seemed pleased with our reunion, “Two people never
matched more.” We were re-invited to afternoon cookouts. We stopped for drinks with
the Barmonts almost every Tuesday. The women at work asked me to a candle party. Our
separate lives again molded into one definitive pareja. Except Manuel became a problem. When he sliced mangos for breakfast, my teeth
clenched with each nick to the cutting board. If he slouched on the sofa, absorbed
in a Jackie Chan film and a bag of Doritos, my neck muscles tightened. Eyelids twitched
as he flipped through the sports section of the newspaper. And sometimes when he slept,
I imagined smothering his breath, annoyed by the heave of his body. Manuel, still trying to prove his devotion, handed me the solution. One evening,
he brought home his abuelita’s stew. As we ate, he sucked four lamb bones dry, gently
setting the sharpest one on the table. We drank two and a half bottles of Merlot,
and finished the meal with a cake I made the evening before. I washed the dishes,
scraping the scraps into the trash. The sharpest bone, a T-bone of sorts, I slipped
inside a sleeve. Afterward, he led me to the bedroom. His right arm supporting his head, me, left
side pressed against his torso, he used his free arm to unzip my pants. I nibbled
on his bottom lip, then licked down his chin to his neck. I blew lightly. He closed
his eyes. Slightly arching, twisting nearly upright, careful to grip the T-bone, I
braced against his collar. The tip of bone pierced deep into his throat. I shoved
harder. He gurgled. And in that pause between breaths, we both understood cómo el
tiempo mide el perdón.
