After a successful trial, Guillermo insisted that “we celebrate”, and while Marcel, his father, and about 20 other people that I don’t know, sit on the long, roundabout, cushioned bench around the fire pit, drinking, smoking, talking, and laughing, I lay on one of the many white chaise lounge chairs surrounding the pool, silently.
The cool night breeze flicks the stray hair strands from my loose low bun, the chilly air penetrating my sweater as I cross my legs in front of me. I draw my cheek between my teeth, chewing thoughtfully with my eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly and my gaze fixed on the whipped cream of the Piña Colada in my hands as my mind wanders to the thing I wish I could stop thinking about: the bomb.
Damn it.
Thinking back to the assembly, I don’t know how the bombs ma
