ten hours of mezcal and carne asada, as warm rain falls in the garden. the drops are muffles by the bouganvillas, the azaelias. tall and short cacti line the far wall of the house, and we sit opposite some green that has climbed one and a half stories of wall, up to meet the sky where the lighting strikes crooed edges into the only thing without edges, just for a moment. it's loud with the sound of talk and the low rain and the deep rumbles of thunder.

in the day, we sleep, then mattienzo drives us to san miguel. it is beautiful here and i take pictures on moti's camera until there is no more space left for pictures. chaco is late, and we sit in mama'a eating thin slices of pizza and listening to spanish guitar and the fountain. the light changes as the sun moves over the enclosed patio, a honeymooning couple comes in, sits down, and eats, but doesn't smile once.

at cervezeria, downtown, we sit in the window, and watch the people below. this used to be an apartment, there is still a bathtub in the ladies room, aqua tiled and perfect, a triptych mirror, pattern glass doors. manolo tells me i look like i'm seventeen, natalia tells me i'm tall, guillermo wants to know if i had nightmares after the tuesday movie. everyone wants to go see the killers in guadalahara. paulina is laughing on the phone and at use, no one knows why. moti is wearing his old glasses, they are better than his new ones, but that's not the kind of thing you can say without giving someone a complex, so i don't say anything. all the girls leave together in yugi's car, we bounce home heavy lidded and almost drunk, maria and i in the backseat smirking at the traffic.