Page 77

Eloise and I take a seat beneath one of the pergolas, the sun filtering through a thatch of bougainvillea overhead, and watch. A roly poly pug, the color of a toasted marshmallow, races after a bright green tennis ball, only to have it scooped up by a much faster border collie. The collie’s owner shouts at her, then apologizes profusely to the owner of the pug. An abuelita with a pair of chihuahuas sits in the shade of the pergola across from us, her two dogs growling at anyone who passes by. We can hear the faint strains of another street musician, playing just outside the park.

Eloise sips her coffee, her expression unreadable. I want to touch her knee with mine again. The wind teases her curls, and she tucks them impatiently behind her ear.

“This isn’t as scary as I thought it would be,” she says quietly. “Being in a new place. I’ve never been out of the country before.” She sighs. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the wedding, though. I like this.” She sweeps her hand out. “Hanging out in a park. Watching dogs. With—” She coughs, and takes a sip of coffee, her cheekbones suddenly laced with pink. My heart trips in my chest, wondering if she was about to say what I thought she was going to say and then banishing the idea because it’s only getting my hopes up.

I nudge her with my shoulder. “We can stay here as long as you want.”

She nudges me back and shoots me a half-grin. “Okay.”

We sit and sip and make up stories about the dogs and their owners.

“I bet that abuelita makes individual taquitos for those two chihuahuas every night for dinner.”

“The border collie is in training for the dog Olympics.”

“See that boxer? He’s judging everyone. Especially the little girl on the roller skates.”

“That golden retriever is named Fluffy McFlufferson, and he sleeps on a faux fur bed with his name emblazoned on it.”

“The Xoloitzcuintli and the shih tzu over there are plotting the destruction of the world, like Pinky and the Brain.”

She laughs. “That Xolo does look a lot like Pinky.”

“No, no, he’s the Brain,” I say.

We finish our coffees as the sun begins to set.

“Any news from Rachel?” I ask.

She checks her phone. “No.”

We both pretend to ignore the fact that this means we will have to share a bed. I feel the tension flicker between us. My fingers itch to take her hand.

“Want one more bite for the road?” I ask. “I know this great cocktail spot. But we need to take a car.”

Eloise nods. “Sure.”

We dump our coffee cups and head out of the park while I text Enrique and ask if he can come pick us up. He’s too far away at the moment, in the suburbs of the city, so I just call an Uber. We head back to Colonia Roma, to a little bar called Las Brujas. It sits on the corner of a tiny square park called Parque Rio de Janeiro, a fountain in its center boasting a metal replica of Michealangelo’s David. We get out of the car in front of a red brick building, with arched windows fronted with balconies crafted in intricate patterns of swirling metal, painted white.

“The architecture in this city is very cool,” Eloise observes.

“It is. Many different styles all together. Lots of Art Deco. See that?”

I point to the top of the building where a pointed roof sits atop a tall turret, all brown shingles. “It’s like a witch’s hat,” I say. “And those two windows below it are the eyes.”

“Huh,” Eloise says.

“They call the building La Casa de Las Brujas, the house of the witches. This bar is called Las Brujas—The Witches—and it’s owned and operated by women,” I say as we walk toward the varnished wooden doors, thrown wide open in the temperate evening.

“Well, I love that,” Eloise says.

The interior is dimly lit, glowing orb-like lamps hanging over the sleek black bar, row upon row of liquor bottles illuminated in golden light behind it.

I ask the hostess if we can have a table, and she takes us to a spot in a dark corner in the back, tucked away from the bar. There are cushioned seats and a low table and as soon as we sit, I realize there is simply no way to keep any space between us. This nook was made for couples. Eloise’s elbow bumps mine, and her thigh presses into me as she adjusts herself.

“Sorry,” I say, as she says, “No it’s fine,” and we do this awkward dance back and forth before finally, I sling my arm around her to rest it along the back of the cushioned bench. It’s the only way to be comfortable. She sits up primly, as much as the seat allows, but we’re still touching. I feel her shiver, and it reverberates along the side of my torso. I flex my fingers, aching to pull her closer. To feel the curve of her shoulder beneath my hand. To brush the curls from her eyes. There’s a candle on the table and its flickering light throws her features into sharp relief, her eyes like deep green pools.

I open the menu and show her the cocktail list.