“Jesus Christ, Maria,” I sighed, staring at the remains of the vase on the floor. The blood red roses lay atop the white shards on the floor behind me. “What the fuck was that for?”
“You know exactly what that was for, Ray!” Despite her tone, I grew a little excited watching her tongue vibrate as she rolled the “r” in “Ray.” It reminded me of the first time I saw her mouth up close.
I tore my eyes away from the ceramic grave behind me.
“What do you want from me, Maria? What do you want me to say?”
“Where’s your puta, huh?”
“Working.” She strode up right in front of me, and a cloud smelling of tequila and some floral perfume assaulted my nostrils. The fury painted on her tan face told me I wasn’t getting a kiss. She instead jammed her finger right over my heart, the force of it striking me like a bullet.
“It’s her or me, Ray.” Her finger dug deeper. “Her or me. Two months ago, you told me I was yours. You’re still here in this puta’s house.”
“Her,” I whispered and glanced again toward at the roses behind me, wishing they could have stayed neat and perfect in their vase forever.
Her fist clenched, and I braced myself, but she turned and walked toward the door.
“Wait,” I said. She paused, turned her head, and threw her angry eyes toward mine. “So…this is it then?”
I winced as the slamming door shouted her answer. I stared at it for an eternity before picking up the next plate and watching the glare of the light overhead grow brighter as I scrubbed the residue away.