Eighteen Gabriel was in the garage,

washing the cars. He turned his back on her. Lucía decided she didn’t want her romance to end with rancor. She could not end things badly with everyone.

“I wanted you to know that I had a fight with the architect,” she said to him.

Gabriel pretended not to hear her and kept working, but he could not keep it in.

“Him too? Why?”

“Because he found out we’re fucking.”

“Really?”

“Of course not, Gabriel. I don’t know. I got tired of his bullshit. He only cares about money and who has more of it.”

“See? That’s why it’s best not to have any,” said Gabriel.

“Damn straight,” she laughed.

She grabbed him by the waist and kissed him.

The door to the garage creaked. They both jumped.

Freshly showered, shaved, and wearing a suit at those ungodly hours, Adolfo stared at them through his sunglasses. It was hard to tell if he could have seen them kissing, or if he overheard their conversation behind the door.

“What’s up? Why so bright and early?” Lucía asked.

“I have a business breakfast,” grumbled Adolfo. Some buddies want me to invest in a new joint in San Ángel, an Oriental-Mexican fusion lounge. I do not understand talking business over huevos motuleños at seven thirty in the morning. It’s sheer savagery.”

“I didn’t know narcos were such early risers,” said his sister.

“I am not in the mood, Lucía. Move my car, bro,” said Adolfo.

“I’m leaving. I was asking Gabriel to get me a notebook I left upstairs,” said Lucía.

“Let him move my car first,” said Adolfo.

Before getting in his Jetta, Adolfo looked at them once more, as if trying to piece things together.

That afternoon, Lucía was attempting to study for her Ergonomics of Perception exam, but Viviana’s meticulous blue handwriting kept jumping out of the notebook and Lucía had a hard time catching it.

“Why did you break up with Ricardo, Lucía?” Adolfo was leaning against her bedroom door, silent and devious like an alligator in a swamp.

“We didn’t break up, we fought because he is full of himself and treats me like an idiot.”

“Reliable sources told me that you picked a fight with Paola del Paso. That you defended a gringa who is dating a Mayan.”

“She was full of shit, Fito. I hated her.”

“Are you in love with an Indian by any chance?” Adolfo asked.

“Of course not! There’s a teacher at school who is in love with me,” she admitted with a shaky smile. “He is in love with me, not I with him.”

“Who?”

“Javier, the History of Philosophy prof. The other day, I was at the library, and he came and sat next to me. I was oblivious. I went to the restroom and when I came back, he had left me a note that said, ‘You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen,’ with his name and phone number. Can you imagine?”

That was true, but it had happened over a year ago. This was her strategy of using truths to tell lies.

“Did you call him?” asked Fito.

“No, but every time I run into him in the hallways or the cafeteria, I die. He always stares at me like he’s silently in love with me.”

That was a lie. Lucía had called him. They met for coffee. They ended up rolling around naked on the carpet in his apartment on Petén Street, in Narvarte. But Lucía regretted it. Javier was a middle-class wannabe with intellectual aspirations. He gave her the willies. His house was the color of snot, furnished with rustic wooden furniture bought on the street; Tamayo Museum posters stuck to the wall with tacks, thirsty plants, and dog-eared books. And as if this weren’t enough, the carpet scratched her ass. Javier smeared his admiration on her like a snail, using pretentious poetic phrases designed to win her heart. He called her the next day and Lucía let him know that she had made a mistake and didn’t think it wise to get involved with a teacher. Months later, his eyes still oozed bitterness.

“Isn’t he a fucking Indian?” her brother asked.

“No, in fact, he is whitish, with brown eyes. Kinda cute.”

“Don’t be vulgar! With a college teacher, Lucía, eew!” exclaimed Adolfo.

“There are plenty of people who think that your love affairs are disgusting too. You tell me what is more repulsive. Get the hell out of my room.”

Adolfo was used to that kind of comment. They made his blood boil, but he was adept at coldly brushing them off.

“Did you return Ricardo’s ring or are you planning to keep it?”

Lucía jumped out of bed and slammed the door in his face.

Adolfo hadn’t seen anything concrete, but he had sensed their alarm, and the possibility of a love affair between the servant and his sister triggered several horrifying thoughts. The first one was: If I can have the hots for the little gofer, why wouldn’t she feel the same way? And if even I think my sister is a hottie, why wouldn’t he? It tormented him that men could defile Lucía’s innocence, that they could abuse her, make her suffer. His sister was a queen. None of them deserved her, especially not that punk. He imagined Gabriel licking his sister’s snowy breasts, crowned by her rosy nipples, stubborn with lust. A black ball of violence settled in his guts.