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Crap. The apartment key is in there. I had to pee so bad when I got in, I can’t recall if I locked the door. A quick glance down at my pelvis reminds me I’m still full-bladdered, thankfully.
See, positive.
I slowly glide toward the front with my back against the wall, trying to steer clear of the square glass pane on the door. I nearly collide with the guest book and rattle the Cock of Barcelos miniature souvenirs on the small entry table.
My hands fly out to keep them steady as a light filters in through the glass. The shadow stands in front of the door, his head nearly occupying the shape and blocking out the light.
I duck down a little, as much as these platforms allow, and squeeze into the small space between the entry table and the door, the two walls meeting at my back. My fingers shake so hard my knuckles ache and shoot shivers up my wrist. Cradling my elbow in hand, I squeeze the muscle at my shoulder, then lean my head back. My free hand anxiously reaches for the door knob, wraps around it, and gently twists no more than thirty degrees. It stops short.
Thank God.The sigh of relief expels my anxiousness out of me, and I slink to the floor, crouching next to the door to wait this out.
I have no clue what type of man stands outside or what his intentions are with me.
What if I’m the reason the shutters are closed on Pink Street?
I fit the characteristics: foreigner, poor, no family, no one to miss. No one to search for me. But I didn’t do anything to anyone, and I mind my own business. I’m not a sex worker, just someone who enjoys sex—and even that I haven’t enjoyed for years. The people who disappear are usually involved in something shady or are too naive to lie.
What I do know, is that normal people don’t come knocking at four in the morning. And anyone within a hundred mile radius knows the shop owner is in a rehab facility. A major stroke a few months ago left her paralyzed and unable to speak.
“Sei que estas ai.”He switches to Portuguese, but it’s not native, there’s a hint of Spanish, at least it sounds that way by the way he rounds the “s”s into a soft purr.
“Deja-me entrar, por favor.”His next words come out in Spanish, the way he adds the raspiness to the “j” sound, making it breathier and sexy, makes my cheeks glow. Or maybe it’s thepleasetagging the end of that sentence that has me fighting with my heart. He’s pleading to be let in.
Maybe that’s how they get people, though—trick them into opening the door.
“Me escuchas?”The rawness in his voice infiltrates my heart.
My hand glides down to my lap as he whispers to the door frame. Some of it is spoken so low, I can’t understand the mixture of languages, but the parts I do, the ones that sound like they come from the ache in his chest, those are louder, more discernable and all about forgiveness.
What had he done that was so bad? And who had he done it to?
“I know you know it’s me.” He switches back to English in time for me to realize: he thinks I’m the shop owner.
“T-he Rosa Negra is c-closed.” The words flood out fast, my stutter getting the best of me.
“Not for me!” he replies angrily and pounds on the door again, causing me to flinch and shut my eyes while he switches to his mixture of Spentuguese.
From the safety of the shop, I let him speak, let him vent, until he gets frantic.
Violent. The kicks to the door nearly yank it off its hinges. My breathing gets harder. My nerves coil into a ball at the pit of my stomach.
“Amá!” he calls out. The door knob rattles. The window shakes as if he’s trying to break it. “Amá, please!”
The light goes out from the outside. The footsteps retreat.
And then it goes silent.
So silent, it irks me.
With my purse in hand, I rummage for my phone. I stare at the screen watching the minutes change.
Run. Flee. Cops. But my ankle hurts and my brain feels like a bomb went off. The negativity settles and I switch toreverse.
Five.I bring up the translator on my phone.
Four.I type in the word with trembling fingers.
Three.I wait and hold my breath.
