The Politician.

II. Maybe I died that day.

Summer here reminds me of the only good parts of home. I don't miss it at all, Mexico City encompasses all things that enticed me on that island. It was not difficult for me to feel at home, somewhere new. I wasn't born in Jamaica, my parents only moved us when I was eleven. We always moved around, and would have left Jamaica if they hadn't died.

My days now are simple yet exciting. Similar to how my life was before my parents’ death, I was at peace in nature. I started taking long walks again, roaming through parks and gorgeous neighborhoods. I was in awe of Mexican architecture and dreamed of a life I wish I had. As I stand in front of a random family’s gate, I wonder what it would be like, to be sixteen again, with my parents around, with loving siblings. Maybe I would go have lunch with friends every Friday after school, maybe my boyfriend and I would argue about which colleges to go to, maybe I would even sneak out on Saturday nights, going to a motorcycle race my mother forbade me to attend. Some people notice me standing there for far too long, they stare in my direction, questioning my presence here. I always leave at that point, nostalgic and a bit embarrassed.

My tendency to roam has helped my position at work. I was able to help map out key points for the installation of our electronic city bikes. Mr.Sanchez, my boss, is very pleased with my performance. He set up a short meeting with me at the end of the week. My doom-oriented mind expects the worst. But once the day comes, the subject of the meeting is only good news; a promotion and a raise.

I would celebrate, but even after all these months, I haven't been able to find one friend. Bruno and Paulo lived in Spain, but made an effort to facetime me whenever they found time, but I need a physical presence, not necessarily someone to share my darkest secrets with, but someone to drink and eat with, when a milestone like this comes along again.

Bianca, my colleague, is a contender, but I am afraid of seeming strange.

I mean, how does one make a new friend in their mid twenties? How do I express interest in going for drinks and gossiping about people in our office?

I have given her the occasional compliment about her shoes and hair. She has reciprocated, but the conversation never passes the threshold of niceties. I have decided to be more persistent today. I hope it works.

She is sitting in the courtyard on her lunch break, eating the same salad as every other day. I sit next to her with my Tuna sandwich in hand and smile. She smiles back. After minutes of painful silence, she breaks it before I have a chance to.

“Promocion? Cool.” She says with a bright smile.

Her English isn't very good, that probably also explains why we’re not entirely close yet. We met at a middle ground of barely there Spanish and broken English, but it was enough most days, we exchanged what was necessary for us to work together, and occasionally enjoyed a passing moment with no work.

“Si. It’s very surprising. I didn't expect it at all.” I respond, attempting less Spanish than she did English.

“No! You work hard since you get here. Very hard. I see you, come early, leave late, work on weekends. You deserve!”

I believe I hear sincerity, which I have difficulty identifying, but this feels close to it.

She suggests a celebration before I do.

“We meet at Pollo at eight.” She says.

I don’t know what Pollo is, but I agree and forget to ask her where to find this place. I’ll probably have to look it up or ask around like I usually do.

I convinced myself to go buy a new skirt. I hate spending money, but this time it feels essential. I almost reluctantly take an uber to an expensive store I once saw when I was roaming around Polanco. Something in the back of my mind insists that I should make a good impression and present myself a bit better than I usually do. I don’t make much money, but I have saved up enough for a few luxuries every now and then, which I am fairly new to.

The store is even grander inside, it looks expensive and even smells expensive. As soon as I walked in, I felt a fresh breeze cooling my entire body from this summer heat.

As I take my first steps, I am captivated by every inch of that store. I walk around and look at things I didn't come for and get distracted by the glitz and glamor of this place.

I never thought I would be in a place like this. My brothers refused to let me spend any “unnecessary” money on myself, even if they themselves had a lot of it from their “work” and from an inheritance I was never allowed to touch.

Once I snap out of my daydream and move towards what I am really here for, I realize that everyone in the store is huddled in the far right corner of the space facing the shelves that hold the luxury purses, around a tall man towering over at least five women, two of which are wearing the stores’ uniform.

“I’m sure she will love that Mr. Mariduena.” I understand one of them say in Spanish

“Si!” The others agree in unison.

He says nothing, instead he nods. His back is turned to me. Aside from the gray fighting, the black of his thick hair and his obvious six foot plus height, I wouldn't be able to describe him more.

He is about to turn in my direction, and a girl-like feeling consumes me for some strange reason. I turn away and stay frozen, staring at my potential new skirt for far longer than needed. He takes about ten minutes to pay for the purse he chose and get it wrapped in birthday wrapping paper. The only word to come out of his mouth is a strong, deep “Gracias”, right before he walks so close passed my back that the elbow of his suit grazes my shoulder blade, we both slightly turn to acknowledge the other but only enough to give an excusatory nod without making the effort to look into each other's eyes.

He walks out and his scent lingers in the store; I'm not able to describe it, but I can understand the five women's fascination. All six of us stay incredibly still for a full minute, before they go about giggling and gossiping in Spanish, and I direct myself to the change rooms to try on my skirt.