GUENTEMALLA PT 1.
1748 Words
Eve’s POV.
“Where will you go first when you reach Guatemala?”
Xavier asked as he stood beside me at the airport, his voice soft, yet carrying that familiar teasing undercurrent, as if he already knew my answer but wanted me to admit it aloud. The announcements over the loudspeakers blurred into white noise, mingling with the rolling suitcases and soft echoes of people hugging, calling names, or laughing at inside jokes. Sunlight streamed through the giant glass windows, glinting off the polished floors, reflecting in my eyes, and I realized I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My mind refused to work properly. I hadn’t thought beyond the fact that I was leaving Xenonia. I hadn’t thought beyond the relief of stepping away from the crowded streets, the suffocating library stacks, the walls that reminded me of lonely rooms. Guatemala was new. Strange. Unknown.
And yet, strangely magnetic.
I finally spoke, my voice almost a whisper: “My literature class, I think.”
Xavier’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles, approving, though his eyes were sharp, observing. He knew me too well.
By the time I reached the city, the streets had begun to glow under the golden afternoon sun. The taxi I took wound through streets flanked by colonial buildings, their pastel facades peeling just enough to hint at age and history. Balconies overflowed with red bougainvillea and yellow marigolds, swaying slightly in the light breeze. The cobblestone streets echoed faintly with the sound of wheels and distant voices, and the air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and warm bread, the city’s heartbeat laid bare in every detail. By some miracle—or perhaps the driver’s intuition—I arrived at the literature institute far earlier than I had expected.
The building itself was understated yet confident, a mixture of modern minimalism and old-world charm. Tall, arched windows allowed sunlight to spill across polished floors inside. A faint scent of ink and paper hung in the air. My pulse quickened, partly with nervousness, partly with excitement.
“Hello?” The receptionist’s voice cut across my thoughts. She smiled warmly, her eyes bright and attentive, like she had been expecting me. “How can I help you today?”
Before I could respond, Xavier’s hand slipped into mine. That small gesture, just the touch of his fingers against mine, grounded me immediately. His presence felt like a tether to reality, a reassurance that I wasn’t entirely alone in this strange, vibrant city.
He guided me forward, leading me into a gallery within the institute itself. I froze in place, overwhelmed.
I had never been inside a gallery before. Not like this. The space seemed impossibly large, flooded with soft, natural light that highlighted the vibrant colors on the walls. Each painting seemed to tell its own s********e raw, some chaotic, some serene—yet all contained a hidden pulse, as if they were alive, vibrating quietly with emotion. Ordinary people were transformed into extraordinary figures, their faces and hands carrying emotions I could almost feel.
“So,” I asked softly, my voice carrying the slightest tremor of awe, “what’s all of this?”
The man leading the tour paused and looked down at me, then smiled. “Before I answer that, may I ask—are you a painter or an author?”
I shook my head. “Neither.”
His expression shifted momentarily, a flicker of disappointment, before his eyes brightened again. “Well, if you find this boring, you can just say so.”
“I love books,” I admitted quickly, “and…” I hesitated, biting my lip. I loved paintings too, though I couldn’t let him see that. “Just books.”
I watched as a smile spread across his face—half amusement, half triumph. I couldn’t help laughing at the sight.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“You’re too easy,” I said, eyes glinting.
“That’s an assault,” he frowned playfully.
“Whatever you call it,” I replied, turning my gaze back to the paintings. The colors were mesmerizing—rich ochres, deep crimsons, midnight blues, the brushstrokes almost tangible. “What made you think I’d be interested in these?”
He tilted his head, grinning. “Ah! Your home screens.”
I turned to him, perplexed. “What?”
One of the paintings caught my attention again—a woman balancing a bucket on her head, a baby strapped to her back, firewood bundled in cloth in her left hand. My wallpaper. My favorite image.
“How did you—?”
He smiled. “I was behind you at the museum. You glanced at your phone. I noticed it.”
I chuckled, incredulous. How long had he been following me? “Who else would use that as a wallpaper?”
“Congratulations,” he said, casually, like this was a victory in some silent game between us.
We continued walking, moving past canvases depicting serene landscapes, chaotic city streets, and abstract explosions of color. I found myself drawn to one in particular—a woman seated under a mango tree, her expression pensive, hands resting in her lap, the sunlight falling in delicate patterns across her face. The emotion in her eyes made me pause, my chest tightening.
“I was born to paint,” he said suddenly, breaking my reverie. “There’s no point in life if I can’t paint.”
“I’ve never met someone so determined,” I admitted, voice soft, almost reverential. He turned to look at me briefly, and his eyes sparkled, reflecting the deep blues and fiery reds of the canvas behind him.
“What do you do for life?” he asked abruptly.
“Studying literature,” I replied, biting my tongue to keep from saying student.
“But you’re just beginning,” he said, unrelenting.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Reading books.”
“You must be lying,” he said, eyes flicking from me to the paintings, then back again, measuring, judging.
“I don’t even know you,” I said defensively.
He nodded, conceding the point.
Exhaustion hit me suddenly, the adrenaline of the morning leaving me limp. “Apology accepted. I’ll take a taxi home. Let’s call this a night.”
“Don’t you want to know me?” he asked as I passed him.
“You refused to say anything first,” I shot back.
“May I at least know your name?”
I smiled, teasing. “Maybe if we meet again.”
He rushed to catch me, gripping my hand gently. “Let me take you home then.”
Later, at the literature institute, the paperwork, forms, and schedules awaited me. The receptionist guided me patiently, explaining each step as I followed, flipping pages and signing slips. Xavier had already taken care of most of it—his signature neat and confident. I couldn’t help but admire how he always seemed ten steps ahead, knowing exactly what I would need.
“Night classes?” she asked, raising an eyebrow when I chose 8:00 PM.
“Night owl,” I admitted, smiling sheepishly.
She typed quickly, nodding. “Congratulations. Your classes start Monday at 8:00 PM.”
I tucked the schedule into my bag and stepped outside, letting the warm afternoon sun wash over me. Streets buzzed with life—market vendors calling out, children running barefoot along cobblestones, the occasional bicycle bell. The city felt alive, vibrant, chaotic, and utterly intoxicating.
A coffee shop called to me with the aroma of roasted beans and baked pastries. I entered without hesitation.
“Cappuccino, please,” I said.
The barista moved gracefully, preparing the drink with care, sliding the cup across the counter to me. I settled into a corner, watching sunlight streak across the wooden tables, painting everything in gold. Unlocking my phone, I found an email from Xavier.
A schedule. Every day accounted for. Museum visits. Exhibitions. Small excursions. Even the little streets I could explore on my own. He must have anticipated my uncertainty, my need for structure.
Later that evening, I found myself in the museum, surrounded by dignitaries, officials, and scholars. Velvet curtains, polished marble floors, and soft classical music filled the grand hall. My senses were bombarded—the smell of old books, polished wood, and faint perfume. Paintings adorned the walls, each frame carved and gilded.
The drums began suddenly. Smoke curled across the stage. Colored lights danced over performers clad in red and yellow Makenzi shirts and shorts. Their smiles were infectious, their movements precise yet wild, weaving stories I could not entirely understand. The crowd clapped in rhythm, cheering, voices blending into an energy that made my chest vibrate.
“Looks like the show is boring to you,” a voice said.
I turned. A man stood beside me, the same from the coffee shop. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Have we met before?” I asked, curious, cautious.
“My apologies for earlier,” he said smoothly.
“Apology accepted,” I replied, smirking.
He glanced at the stage. “The show was disappointing to me. I was leaving when I saw you. May I apologize properly?”
I laughed softly, marveling at his audacity.
Before I knew it, he led me into the night, the streets dark but glowing under lamplight. Cobblestones reflected the moonlight, buildings casting long shadows, and the faint scent of wet earth lingered from a brief afternoon rain. I slid into his car, letting the hum of the engine and the quiet intimacy of the space envelope me.
“I saw you at the literature institute,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Is that why you followed me to the coffee shop?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He chuckled. “You’d call me a stalker if I admitted it.”
“How did you…”
“To keep it short, I was interested in why a young lady like you loved literature,” he said.
“That sounds crazy,” I said, rolling my eyes.
The car stopped in front of a modern gallery. “Another gallery?” I scoffed.
“Yes. More interesting than the museum,” he promised, opening the door for me.
I hesitated for just a moment, then stepped into the light and colors of a world I’d never known, my heart inexplicably lighter.
- Writer
