Untitled 3
1248 Words
Matheus brought us to eat at our favorite restaurant. I smile instantly as we walk through the door and the smell of pork cracklings fills my nostrils. God bless pork cracklings. Amen.
We walked together to our usual table and sat down facing each other.
"How are you, Betty?" my father greets her, and Betty smiles at him warmly. Betty is the owner of the place and our favorite person in town, because whenever there’s any food left over, she always takes it home, and we have a delicious dinner thanks to her.
—Very well, my love. And you? You’re getting more beautiful every day, my dear — he compliments me, pinching my cheek. I avoid wrinkling my face and just smile.
—Okay, Betty. “Bring us the usual, please,” my father asks, and Betty nods, walking away to go into the kitchen. "How did it go?" he asks.
—Okay. Mrs. Noris is really good about letting the three of us work when there isn’t that much need for staff at the café —I admit, and he laughs, accepting the beer that Betty sets down on the table in front of him—. "Thanks," I say to Betty, and I pick up the Coca-Cola to drink just like Matheus, settling back in my seat.
—There are only a few more months until your sabbatical year is over and you can go off to study at university. Have you thought about what you’re going to study? — he asks, but I notice the tone in his voice, that change. There are no universities in town; I’d have to go to the city to study. It would be three years away from home. Away from him and from the people I know.
“I still don’t know if I’ll study abroad,” I admit, hiding behind my hair as I take a sip from my bottle.
"Diana," he warns. I take a deep breath.
"Would you hook up with a girl younger than you?" I blurt out, and he starts coughing, choking on his beer. I open my eyes and get up, moving to pat him on the back until he recovers, then I return to my seat. I can’t look up when he asks me to.
"Diana, look at me," he insists. I bite my lower lip and do it. His eyes look at me, somewhere between confused and surprised. “What kind of question is that?” he asks. I take a breath, but I shouldn’t answer because Betty arrives with our plates, piled high with pork cracklings, lemon, and rice.
He thanks me and leaves, stroking my hair.
"Diana," Matheus warns again.
—I just want to know. You never bring anyone home; I don’t know if you’ve been with anyone since Mom, but just so you know, all the girls who went to school with me are into you. I wonder if you’d go for a girl younger than you, I murmur, not wanting to admit that the ones who are into you are precisely my friends.
I notice him when he licks his lips.
"I wouldn't be with any of your former teammates, Diana," he declares. I take a deep breath.
"Why?" I insist, and he growls.
"Are you serious?" he replies. I shrug and he huffs—. Because I’m too old for them, Diana. Because you should be with guys your own age, not with a man twenty-two years older, he declares.
—They’re just numbers, I assure you; no one cares. Besides, guys our age don’t know how to get laid—I admit—but when he looks at me in surprise, I immediately blush with embarrassment.
“At your age, I already knew how to pick things up,” he declares, very sure of himself. That confession takes my breath away, so I blink and he sighs. Just eat and try not to hang out with those girls who fill your head with crazy stuff — he suggests.
"It's not that crazy to want an older man, Dad," I assured him.
—It’s wrong, Diana. Not to mention that it seems your former classmates are after your father—he points out.
—Stepfather—I clarify, and he gives me a dirty look. I shift uncomfortably. Don’t look at me like that; it’s what they always say when I remind them who you are. I defend myself. He shakes his head, picks up his pork rind, and squeezes lemon juice over it.
—You should have your own experiences, Diana. You can’t want an older man. It’s not right.
"But you didn't answer," I murmured, unable to stay silent.
“I told you I wouldn’t be with any of them,” he emphasizes. I rolled my eyes.
"My question was whether you'd be with a girl younger than you, not whether you'd be with my former classmates," I reminded him. He grunts, and I smile innocently.
—No, Diana, I wouldn’t be with any girl younger than me. Happy?
—And if, for example, Paula were a bit older, would you be with her? —I insist, because Paula’s birthday is next Saturday.
The one who’s furthest away is Fernanda, who still has two and a half months until her birthday.
"No," he says very confidently. I smiled because that’s what I wanted to hear. I knew he would never mess with my friends. I knew it.
"Okay, thanks," I mutter, and now I really dig into eating my delicious chicharrón.
The rest of the meal is silent. We never eat in silence, but after my questions, I’m too embarrassed to talk to him. And I guess he’s letting me live with my embarrassment in silence, because he hasn’t brought up any conversation topics either. At the end, he pays Betty, and she gives us some extra chicharrón to take home.
When he gets to the motorcycle, Matheus adjusts his helmet and looks me in the eyes. We looked at each other for a long time, so long that I started to get nervous under his gaze. I’m not really sure what she’s conveying to me, but it’s very intense. Then she just lowers the visor, sighs deeply, and helps me get in the back. He puts on his own helmet and carefully climbs onto the front to start the engine.
I’ve been with him practically my whole life; it started with my mother when I was three, and she died three years later, so I’ve been with Matheus longer than with any other family member, because my mother’s family moved away after her death, and Matheus’s family doesn’t live nearby, although they visit us from time to time. I’ve ridden on his motorcycle with him many times; however, now that I’m holding onto him from behind, pressed against his body, I feel different.
I think I really made him uncomfortable with my words, and that makes me uncomfortable too. Not to mention, of course, that the girls’ words are still stuck in my head, and the memory of my own thoughts is driving me crazy.
I can’t stop imagining Matheus fuc*king my friends.
- Writer
