There is nothing in the world better than waking up in the arms of a handsome man. In the dim coolness of the cheap hotel - the muffled noise of Ranchero drifting down a lonesome street, church bells echo in the distance - the air is stale (smells of mildew mixed with dust) and he rolls over, checking his torso for bed bug bites in yellowed, stiff sheets.
He looks up, blinking like a drowsy tortoise - smiles and asks how I had slept.
"You hungry?" I answer, using a finger to brush away bits of sleep from the corner of his eye.
He slides up, lays across my chest, plants a small kiss on my lips.
"I don't want to go to California. I'm going to miss you." He sighs.
(Hector had recently acquired his papers and passport to live and work in the United States and will be moving to El Monte, California to stay with his aunt.)
I say nothing and simply lie there - gazing up at the stained water splotches on the gray ceiling - and stroke his lithe back with an idle hand. He twitches, flicking a small cockroach off of his foot. We lay there, silent.
He needs to go. It would better his life. He needs to move on and forget me. I mean, I really don't love him anyway.
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