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“Hola Silvia, ¿cómo estás?” My friend and the girl behind the counter started chatting, and I untangled my arm to go inspect the bottles. On the other side of the room, there were different types of wines smelling of various herbs and that same powerful bread-smell.
The wooden shelves had scattered bits of dried herbs dotted between them. I looked at the various leaves, wondering what the different shapes and aromas meant. Though we were able to purchase food outside of the theater, the breakfasts delivered to us daily—especially before shows—made it so that I didn’t need to cook in Maestra Cecelia’s Theater.
Time and trauma had taken away most of my memories before the bombings, but I had cooked when I lived in Bendiciones. It was sad that the recipes for paella and papas bravas were completely erased.
I gingerly reached out my free hand and touched the brittle leaves. They crunched in a satisfying way when I rubbed one bit between my rubber coated fingers. I brought my gloved hand to my nose and sniffed.
The smell completely transported me. It was fresh, fruity, and a little minty.
“Hierbabuena,” Silvia said from the counter. I glanced over my shoulder, catching the friendly smile that both she and Magda were casting in my direction. “It can help with indigestion and germs. But it could also assist you with menstruation and hormones if you take it daily in a tea.”
Spearmint was the scent of Antonio’s breath. His hard brown eyes filled my vision, and I blinked furiously to banish his eyes from my sight. I didn’t need him invading my thoughts today.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just looking. We can’t cook where we live.” I flicked the remaining bits of leaves off my fingers and took a step away from the herbs.
Silvia smiled. “Of course. Many of us don’t have individual kitchens in our apartments. It’s a luxury.” She walked out from behind the counter with a stool. After placing it on the ground in front of one of the wine racks, she stepped on top and reached for one of the highest bottles. She craned her neck to look down at Magda. “One or two?”
My best friend shot me a devious glance. “Definitely two. One for us each.” Magda rubbed her hands together excitedly, as if we didn’t have to make it through five hours of practicing first.
Silvia grabbed two bottles, and then stepped off the stool before returning to her spot behind the counter. A box with a key was under her counter, and I heard it pop open with a click.
Both of us reached into our pockets, and produced the exact change for the number that Silvia rattled off.
“¡Gracias!” she said brightly.
I was just turning when Magda leaned in. I paused, wondering what she was doing.
She withdrew a small bill and slid across the counter. “Have you heard anymore about Lázaros?” Magda’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
Silvia glanced behind Magda, as if checking to see if anyone else would come into the shop. Seeing no one approaching, she leaned in close and passed the bottles to me from over the counter one at a time. “They say that he got home this morning, but his wife is still there. No one knows why, but I have a bad feeling about it.”
Fear, an ocean of hot and cold, swirled around inside of me. I placed the bottles into the basket with the fruit.
Magda nodded, but her face was grim. “See you later, Silvia.” She straightened up, and returned to my side.
“Hey, don’t forget that tomorrow is the broadcast for the Blood Tournament!” Silvia called.
I trembled, and Magda squeezed my forearm. Magda waved, and said, “Then I’ll be back the day after so that we can gossip about how fat the mentors have gotten.”
Silvia laughed, but I did not. The best I could do was manage a small smile. Magda was able to say edgy, irreverent things like that so easily. My tongue seemed to reject so much as forming the words.
We didn’t speak anymore as we walked out of the front door.
I pressed my lips together, trying not to say what was inside of me. I really didn’t want to share my thoughts, especially since talking didn’t seem to help my anxiety go down.
We walked back past the market, and toward the Maestra Cecelia’s Theater.
After a few blocks, Magda said, “The fruit we bought was exceptional this week.”
I hummed, afraid of opening my mouth and spewing all of the fear-filled, feeble words into the open air.
Dozens of people walked past us, and the occasional car sped down the street. A small flock of seagulls flew overhead, squawking before heading back to the beach a few miles away.
We passed another block of apartments and Magda stopped. “Carmen, I know you haven’t been eating.”
I blinked at her. Suddenly the aching in my body and the hollow in my stomach felt worse. “I have been eating.”
Magda narrowed her eyes and pulled us out of the busy street before continuing. Only a few people spared us anything other than a quick glance. Trabajadores were busy folk. “One meal a day doesn’t count. You use twice as much energy as what you are taking in. Do you want to get hurt?” Her tone was firm, and full of worry.
