Alonzo whips his hand back like he’s been bitten, and wipes it on his shirt.
“Rude,” he says into the air.
No response from the reformed lump in front of him. He chews a fingernail contemplatively.
It doesn’t mean anything, obviously – his (teasing. calculated. never sincere) advances had been physically spurned a hundred thousand times; this was just number 100,001. But usually the
victim
throws his hand back in his face, threatens to break his fingers, break his arm, break his skull. This, in contrast, had held no malice. Just a faded stop sign on a lonely backroad –
DEAD END
– but he drives on anyway.
“What kind of romance did you have, cariño?” he asks, stretching out his legs. He thumbs the dial on the iPod. “Anybody I should be worried about?”
“Fuck you.”
“Ooo, ouch.” He waits for a reply, once again receives nothing. 10 more minutes, he figures, maybe less. He clicks play, closes his eyes and lets the music kill time for him.
---
He knows about Maritza and the baby – Fiona had pulled him into her cell upon his arrival, ostensibly to fix his nails, but mostly to fill him in on the prison gossip. Tony had chipped in every once in a while to add a detail or two here and there, but mostly just lingered in the corner, staring at Alonzo in awe like Jesus himself had materialised inside their cell.
She’d chattered on and on, occasionally pointing people out with a subtle tilt of the head: the various factions, the movers and shakers. He watched her apply the polish, listening with only vague interest. Very little of what she was telling him was actually news, and what was was mostly irrelevant.
“And the Latinos?” he’d asked finally. She shrugged.
“El Norte’s fallen apart since Morales got taken out. I guess it’s Alvarez in charge now, but he don’t seem to be doing much with it.” She gave his hand a little tug. “Stop moving.”
He pouted exaggeratedly. She shot him a stern look. He stopped moving.
“Which one is Alvarez?” he asked.
“Pretty little thing with the scar on his face.”
“Ahhh.” Alonzo remembered him faintly from the walk in. Lounging next to the stairs, faint red line curving upwards from smirking lips to liquid brown eyes, his amused expression one he’d seen on a million different faces (“look at this freak. who does he think he is?”).
Well, you’ll see, won’t you, baby?
“Alvarez,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue.
“Miguel Alvarez,” Fiona confirmed. She let go of his hands. “K, you’re all done.”
He blew on his nails. “I want him.” He said it impulsively, before he’d really decided whether it was true or not – but once spoken, it sounded true enough. Maybe he did. Why not?
6 years.
It was a long time. Needed to spend it somehow.
She laughed, a boisterous sound that filled the air. “Girl, you and everybody else. Get in line.” She gave him a light, playful push. “Now get out of my room. I need to fix my face.”
“Doesn’t need fixing, hermosa.”
She waved him away. “Leave!”
He let out a heavy sigh and swaggered over to the pod door, then paused, hanging on the edge of the frame. “How’d he get it?”
“Mmm?”
“The scar.”
Her face clouded over. “Ah, pobrecito. Lost his baby, lost his mind.” She shook her head, then leaned in towards the mirror to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. “Lost his girl too, from what I heard.”
“Died?”
“No, ran off with some other barrio boy.”
Alonzo clicked his tongue. “Poooooobreciiiiiiiito.” It wasn’t much to work with, but it was enough – the wheels were already turning. So alone, so vulnerable. Thrust into a position you don’t care to hold. Where do you go from here?
Where could you be led to?
Fiona smacked her lips, then turned to him with a raised eyebrow, leaning her elbow on the sink. “You’re going to go for it, aren’t you? You devil.”
He spread his hands. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
She does, however, drop hints like anvils through the floor.
“Devil,” she repeated with a smirk. “He’s straight, you know.”
“Oh, me too.”
She laughed again. “Oh, yes. Aren’t we all.” She stood up. “Come on, we’ll introduce you.”
---
The last notes of the last song fade away into barely audible static, and he opens his eyes.
The lump is once again a man, staring up at the mattress springs above him. Silent.
“How are you feeling?” Alonzo asks softly, and Miguel jolts.
“Fuck.” Then, after a beat, “weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Just weird.” Miguel glances over at him. “You gonna sit there and stare at me all night?”
“Is that a problem?” Innocent.
A long, hissing exhale. “Guess I don’t got a choice, whether it is or isn’t.” He sounds exhausted, hollow. It pisses Alonzo off, more than he expects it to.
Stop acting like I’m raping you by looking at you.
“The polite thing to do,” he says instead, “is communicate when you’re not comfortable.” He gets up from the floor, stretches. “Use your words, mi amor. We have two whole languages full.” He taps his chin. “Three, perhaps. Parla italiano?”
Miguel laughs incredulously. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Does it sound like I’m joking, sweetie?”
“I’ve told you to fuck off since day one. Déjame. ¿Comprende?”
“Oh, yes. Capisce molto bene.” Alonzo leans over him, and to his credit, Miguel doesn’t pull back this time – just stares up at him in defiance. “Now, watch – I’ll do what I’ve done every. Single. Time.” He flicks Miguel’s cheek, then straightens, hoists himself up onto the top bunk, and pulls the blanket up to his chin. “Respect your wishes. Cariño.”
Coño.