Michael gaped at the touristy T-shirt in Adriana hands, neon green parrots stretched in flight beneath a glittery magenta-scripted Brazil. She couldn’t be serious.
Adriana jiggled the shirt. “Well?”
Keep it light. Keep it fun, he reminded himself and pushed the image of Jackson’s electric blue caftan out of his mind. “It’s nice.”
“Good.” She tossed the shirt to him. “Then all your friends will be jealous.”
“Wait. This is for me?” He was never going to hear the end of it if Jackson saw him wearing this garish shirt.
“Of course.” She paid the street vendor a couple of bills. “Who else?”
Michael could think of a few thousand people he would rather see wearing it but wisely kept his thoughts to himself. He rolled up the shirt and tucked one end in the back of his waistband. If she didn’t see him holding it, she wouldn’t ask him to put it on. Heck, if he was lucky, someone might even steal it.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He offered an innocent smile and changed the subject. “Are there always this many vendors on the street, or is it because of the holiday?”
She shrugged. “Always. You can find anything here.”
They browsed through tables that displayed electronics, underwear, incense. He picked up a stick and smelled it. “I have this growing in my yard.”
He laughed. “Jasmine.”
They had been trying to share pieces of their lives—nothing too involved, disjointed bits of history—which, as it turned out, was not as easy as it seemed. Every time Michael began down a path, he found himself at a gate through which he dared not go. Art, childhood, family, school…every topic of conversation trailed back to his mental illness.
Better to leave her in doubt than share the truth.
He wasn’t like other people and he never would be. He might as well suck it up and put on a good face because no matter how much he wanted to let himself go, he had to stay in control. He couldn’t leave an opening for the spirits to enter or whatever his damaged mind imagined had happened. He still wasn’t sure. It had all seemed so real, yet utterly impossible. The imagination of a child? The ravings of a lunatic? Neither were topics he wanted to discuss.
“Hey, wait up.” He hurried to catch Adriana.
She waited at the street corner beside what appeared to be a candle-lit dinner laid out on the sidewalk on a bright blue cloth. Flies buzzed around a piece of cooked meat and a congealed mess that vaguely resembled vegetables and rice. A bottle of red wine sat uncorked next to a cheap-looking glass, like the kind Michael could have bought at a ninety-nine-cent store back home. A candle sat in the center. While the flame had blown-out, a trail of wax had hardened around the sides. Next to the candle, a mason jar filled with water held a bouquet of bright flowers.
Michael bent down to take one of the blooms.
Adriana grabbed his arm. “You can’t touch that. It has been left for espíritos.”
“Espíritos? You mean spirits?” he asked, with alarm.
“Com Certeza. It is a despacho, an offering. Even the poor and starving won’t touch these.”
Michael chuckled with relief. “You’re kidding, right?”
She gave him a stern look. “Even stray dogs won’t come near them.”
“Even stray dogs, huh?” He could feel his face contorting as he fought the urge to smile. “People just leave these despachos lying on street corners?”
“Oh, no,” she said, gravely. “Not just any street corner, only the ones that form a cross.”
Michael choked back a laugh then wrestled his face into a pseudo-serious expression. “Do you do this, too?”
She raised her chin. “I have.”
In spite of his best efforts, the laughter fell out and kept rolling.
“It’s not wise to laugh at what you don’t understand.”
He tried to pull it together, but she was so darn serious. And that pouty lip? The more annoyed she became the more adorable she looked.
“You’re hopeless.” She turned her back and crossed the street.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He snuck another peek behind him and saw people skirting the cloth as casually as if it were a hole in the sidewalk instead of a fly-ridden candlelit dinner. He knew he shouldn’t make fun of this, but between the New Year’s Eve euphoria, this morning’s insecurity, and the caffeine-sugar jitters from the potent Brazilian coffee, he couldn’t keep it together.
He trailed behind her until the giggles had finally run their course then eased up beside her. As uncomfortable as this morning had become, Michael still felt inexplicably drawn to Adriana. Everything about her called to him. It wasn’t just her sensual, exotic beauty; it was her mystery and depth and poignant melancholy, broken by sudden bursts of childlike joy. And what had he done? Doused it with a fire hose of insensitivity.
Way to go, Cross.