Purple wall. Purple wall. Purple wall. Not my wall.
The secret, if I remember correctly, is to not change your breathing pattern. You always notice a change in breathing patterns. I do not know why this is, but you can not change your breathing patterns.
Yellow sheets. Yellow sheets. Yellow sheets. Not my sheets.
The sun had not yet come out completely and the blues of the morning were beginning to filter in through the wooden shades. Oh, wooden shades. Definitely not my shades.
I felt a warmth of skin against my left calf. Oh tequila… Porque me tormentas? Why do you torment me?
Pieces of the night before begin to come back to me. An arm drapes around me. It’s a white arm. Hairless. Some freckles. Soft. Warm. An arm drapes around me. Breathing pattern theory is done. My heart doesn’t seem to follow my rules and my breathing must keep up with the faster blood pumping through my body. My heart does not follow my rules. Does it ever do what it’s told? What is right?
The hand, manicured, but not painted, begins to rub my chest.
“So, it looks like we met each other last night.”
“Oh yes! See that pile over there? That’s my shirt and those are your pants.”
Well, at least we put them neatly in the corner. Mi mama always told me to put my clothes away.
“Wow… Talking about your mother in bed with a stranger? El Guapo, come on!”
I realized how ridiculous it was, but I am out of practice. I hadn’t been making much eye contact, but I looked over after she made that comment and realized that she had a look of playfulness that made me have a relieved smile.
Feel free to talk about how your father never hugged you to make up for it. We’ll then call it even.
It went like this back and forth for several minutes. The conversation came easily. I saw what she was doing. She was trying to put me at ease, make me relax, make me laugh. It worked.
“You’re quite a dancer.”
“You definitely have some moves I wasn’t aware of.”
She winked as she said this and once again made me laugh. I needed that laugh.