Silver Nitrate(5)

“Mmm,” he replied as he lit his cigarette and took a drag. “Yolanda and I broke up, so she’s not driving me anywhere.”

This startled her. Usually, Tristán called Montserrat at the end of his relationships. He used her as a confessional booth.

“What? When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“You didn’t say anything over the phone.”

“I was trying to figure out if I could patch it over. I mean, seriously patch it over, not just flowers and a box of chocolates. Therapy, maybe. Couples counseling.”

“That’s a bit—”

“Mature of me?” he asked.

“Unusual,” Montserrat said. “I thought you two were going to work on that movie.”

“We’re not on speaking terms. It’s impossible to get funding, anyway. You have to beg for grants and kneel in front of Conaculta,” he said.

“What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume I did something?”

“You didn’t cheat on her, did you? She was nice.”

“You didn’t even like Yolanda,” he muttered, irritated.

“Well, she was nice for you,” Montserrat said. “She was a bit of a snob, but you enjoy that.”

“Are you still seeing that vet with the bad hair?” Tristán asked. He sounded a little spiteful, but she didn’t take the bait.

“That was a year and a half ago. And ‘seeing’ is a big word. If you go out with someone twice you are not seeing them,” she said calmly. “Anyway, we’re talking about you and Yolanda, not me.”

“I didn’t cheat on her,” Tristán said, tapping his cigarette against the small, amber-colored ashtray. “If you must know, she wanted to get married and have a baby.”

“Kiss of death, that,” Montserrat muttered.

“Maybe I should get serious about someone, do the whole wedding and baby thing.”

“Do you want to have a baby?”

“No! But I would like to be happy, and sometimes I think I’m too fucked up to make it work with anyone. I’m going to die alone, wrinkled and ugly, devoured by my cat.”

“Don’t be stupid. You don’t even have a cat. Besides, you’re lovely.”

“My God, I like it when you lie to me like that,” he said, grinning with unmitigated pleasure. He really was too vain.

“I guess now I understand why you said you needed a new apartment. And I thought it was because your old apartment had a roach problem.”

“Roaches and silverfish. I’m hoping the good thing about this new place is I’ll at least avoid an insect infestation.”

“Silverfish love eating starches, you know?” Montserrat said. “They’ll eat books and photos. They’re ravenous little monsters.”

“That’s why I never had you over. It wasn’t a nice apartment. It was cheap, though,” Tristán said with a sigh.

She knew he had never had her over because he had been fully immersed in Yolanda, and he didn’t need Montserrat when he was captivated by the fresh bloom of a new relationship. When he was single, though, he stuck to her like glue. It irritated her when she recalled Tristán’s inconsiderate behavior, his patterns. In six months, he would meet someone new and forget Montserrat’s phone number until a malady befell him or he started getting bored.

“I need to run,” Montserrat said and checked her watch. She folded her napkin and placed it by the empty cup of coffee.

“Where are you going?”

“I told you I had less than an hour for lunch and you were late.”

“You can’t leave me eating by myself.”

“I am,” she said. She grabbed her jacket and put it on.

“What about marriage? Should I crawl back to Yolanda?”

She took out a couple of bills and placed them on the table. “Because you’re afraid of growing old and being alone?” she asked, her voice coarse, even though she didn’t want to sound angry.

“Yes. What? Don’t stare at me, it’s a good enough reason. Isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Montserrat said as she zipped up the jacket. He was irritating her with his little lost boy look, that wounded, wide-eyed expression. “Maybe you’ll meet someone interesting in your new building.”

“Sit down and eat with me. I’m not done chatting with you.”

“Maybe you’ll learn to be punctual,” she said, which earned her a glare and a huff from him.

She slid her hands into her pockets and walked out of the restaurant. When she got back to Antares the reception area was empty and there was a sign that said “Ring the bell,” which meant Candy had gone to fetch herself lunch. Montserrat meant to head to Mario’s office to see if he was back, but he ambushed her in the tiny closet-like space that passed as their staff room, with a sad, half-dried fern in a corner and a toaster that had a broken lever so you had to keep pressing on it. There was a working coffeepot, which was the reason Montserrat had headed there. She placed her jacket on the back of a chair and poured herself a cup.

Before she had a chance to take a sip, Mario walked in. He had splashed soup on his cheap tie during lunch. “Who exactly do you think you are, booking time for Paco without my permission?” he asked.