ThreeLucía whiled the time away,
watching herself puff on a cigarette in the mirror across the living room, which was fogged by a thick cloud of smoke. The guests smoked while they danced, yelled over the music, and drank. The room was decorated with little Mexican flags stuck in plasticine balls inside ashtrays. Green, white, and red paper chains hung over the Fleur de Lis wallpaper.
A tall and pasty drunk, with a reddened face, swollen eyes, and stiff black hair thick with gel crumpled on the sofa next to Lucía and tried to hug her.
“You haven’t been here half an hour and look at you, Luis. You’re plastered.”
“I just came from another party.”
“You’re always wasted. Quítate! ”
Luis laughed and whispered something in her ear. His hands slid all over her legs. She elbowed him hard.
“Pinche alcohólico—Fucking drunk,” she muttered under her breath.
“You are way too wasted, maestro,” interceded an anonymous gentleman with square glasses and an intellectual air. “Go get some fresh air.”
“Finally, someone with class,” said Lucía.
Luis would have liked to defend his manhood, but that required too much effort. He cursed them quietly and stumbled towards the other end of the room.
“Are you okay?” asked the intercessor.
“Yes, thanks. He’s a pain.”
“Ricardo Mestre.”
“Lucía Orozco.”
“Oh, I see. I didn’t know that Adolfo had such a gorgeous sister. And a master of martial arts. . .”
“Come with me to the kitchen,” she ordered, extending her hand so he could lift her off the sofa.
Ricardo followed her. In the kitchen, two young maids, a cook, and a middle-aged servant were replenishing trays, organizing cases of booze, and preparing food. Lucía opened the double doors of the fridge and looked inside.
“Run to the supermarket, Agustín, and bring more beers and more ice. Ask Adolfo for money. Don’t take too long.”
“Yes, señorita.”
“Zenaida, take out the chilaquiles now. These people are getting too drunk.”
“Yes, Señorita Lucía.”
Adolfo Orozco appeared in the kitchen. His body shuddered in a big yawn. His huge green eyes were anchored by pair of dark circles. Except his eyes, everything about him was compact: his lips, the perfectly round mole that floated next to them, his straight blond hair, and his nicotine-stained teeth. He took out a bottle of Crystal vodka from the freezer, opened it and drank straight from the bottle.
“Isn’t my sister a queen, cabrón? You better spoil her. Don’t broosh her,” said Adolfo.
“Bruise,” said Ricardo.
“What?” said Adolfo.
“You mean ‘bruise.’”
“Whatever you say, maextro, just don’t smoosh her.”
“Señor Adolfo, la Señorita Lucía needs me to go get ice and beer,” said Agustín.
“So?” answered Adolfo.
“You are the empresario, and the party was your idea, no?” said his sister.
“My wallet is in a pair of pants I left on my bed. Bring it to me, Agus,” said Adolfo.
Ricardo held the door for Agustín as he left the kitchen carrying two buckets full of beers.
“Can we go out to the garden?” he asked Lucía. “My eyes sting.”
The night was cold and damp. They left their tequila shot glasses on the grill. Lucía took out a cigarette. Ricardo lit it for her.
“Who was the asshole who was all over you?” Ricardo asked.
“Luis Lombardo, Adolfo’s friend.”
“Lombardo of the car dealerships?”
“Indeed.”
Ricardo changed the subject.
“And you go to college?” he asked her.
“Yes. To the Ibero.”
“What do you study?”
“Graphic design.”
“You don’t say. I am an architect.”
“Wow. You build houses.”
“I design spaces.”
The sounds of a ballad drifted from the house.
“Do you want to dance?” asked Ricardo.
Lucía took a sip of tequila and gazed at him flirtatiously.
“Here? No. I want you to give me a little kiss.” She whispered in his ear, exhaling a wisp of breath laced with alcohol. Independence. Initiative. Imagination.
“An itsy-bitsy kiss?”
“Yes. Like this.”
Lucía grazed him delicately with her lips. She caressed the nape of his neck with her fingertips.
“Mmm. You smell like liquor and tobacco,” she purred.
He plunged into her rich-girl aroma of new skin and clean hair.
“And you smell like cotton candy,” he said.
Lucía led him to her father’s studio. A handwritten note on the door read “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT COMING IN.” As she opened the door, shadows shuddered in the dark. It was a couple with half-unbuttoned clothes and messed-up hair.
“Didn’t you see the sign? You can’t be here,” Lucía said.
The couple bolted.
Lucía laughed, locking the door. Ricardo could make out her beckoning smile through the yellow glow of the streetlights.
“You are so beautiful,” said Ricardo.
They kissed and touched for a long time. Lucía gazed at him and swept a quick hand over his crotch, electrifying him. She waited a beat, slid her hand under the elastic band of his briefs, and caressed him, resting her gaze on his happily alarmed face. He sat her on the stately mahogany desk and tried to raise her skirt and lower her tights in order to lose himself inside of her as soon as possible.
“Let’s take it slow,” she said, holding him by the wrist.
She continued rubbing him. It always takes them forever, she thought.
“Don’t mess up my clothes,” she whispered.
Ricardo finished over the desk. He quickly wiped up his semen with a tissue and intended to take care of her next, but after a while, she took his hand off her wet crotch.
“Let’s go to your room.”
“My parents arrive tomorrow.”
“I’ll leave early.”
“It’s already early.”
She gave him a sloppy kiss while she buttoned up. She took a post-it from the desk, wrote down her number and stuck it on Ricardo’s chest.