Chapter 4
Passersby surely assumed Joaquin and I would eventually part ways, him sharp as a tack in his suit and his macramé huaraches, me in a white V-neck and my flip-flops. I’d opted for the mustard-colored jeans I’d worn on the plane, partly to indicate that I understood the difference between casual and shlubby, and partly because they were maybe a quarter of a size too small and tightened up my silhouette accordingly. My hair was carefully tousled, and I’d even bothered with a belt; frankly, I figured I looked close to spectacular, considering I’d rather have stayed in my room, eaten a bucket of ice cream in my underwear, and called it a night.
Besides, I reminded myself, this whole audience concept was imaginary. Okay, Joaquin may have snagged the attention of a few of the young m
