Dusk

Do you really have to go?

It’s the third time that day she’s asked the same question and he’s fed up with it. You know I haven’t got any options, he replies. Or does he? The repetition of that same phrase has probably cancelled out any choices he might have. But deep inside he knows he’s run out of alternatives. He stretches fully on the noisy bed and gives her a curt reply: yes, I have to. Next he knows she’ll ask him why and he’ll have to go over the reasons again. They’ve been through this situation a few times this week. Maybe it was a mistake to let her in on his little “secret”. After all Pepe was clear about the operation: “Don’t tell a soul, jábico. We all want to make it safe to the other side. Imagine when we get there and get rich and send photos back home standing next to our very own motor. Uh? Then, all those naysayers, all those who chickened out, all those who preferred to stay behind and suck up to El Barba; they’ll regret the day they didn’t seize their chance.”

The other side. Funny euphemism for ninety miles. Ninety miles through choppy seas, ninety miles with sharks for company, ninety miles on a makeshift boat. For some it’s a path to freedom, for others a quicker way to join their Maker. Albeit unconsciously. And for him? He is about to find out that night.

He turns to face her. Her naked body glows in the sunlight streaming through one of the broken slats of the bedroom window. Her short, curly hair is damp. She is still sweating from drawing shapes of Roman numbers with him on the old bed: an illegible, twisted L here, a…