Read Online America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago - Free Book Online
Authors: Esmeralda Santiago
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on the cap sleeves. It makes her feel like a princess. Its hem is a ruffle of lace, with tiny bows at intervals. It took a lot of work to tie those tiny bows, to then stitch them in one by one along the frilled hem.
The fan is on, but the door is closed, so it’s hot air that flutters her clothes hanging against the walls like ghosts.
When Correa opens the door, a square of light crosses from one end of the room to the other, broken in the middle when he steps in and gently, quietly, closes the door behind him. She hears him take his clothes off, fold them in the dark, drop them on the chair next to the dresser. He’s a cat. Doesn’t need light to see. She tenses when his weight dips the edge of the bed, creaking the bedsprings. He lies quietly next to her, as if not to wake her. She waits until his hand finds hers, squeezes it. Her breath quickens, but she tries to control it, to not let him hear. He drags her hand across the sheet, up his right hip, onto the soft warm hair on his pubis. He leaves her hand there, crawls his own hand up to her breasts.
She rubs her fingers in the down, grabs his penis, massages it hard and upright. Correa moans, turns over, rolls up her princess nightgown until it’s around her neck, but doesn’t pull it off. He separates her legs with his, kisses her breasts, licks her nipples like a kitten lapping milk, then dives inside her. The first plunge always hurts, always feels as if he were tearing her insides. But she settles into the rhythm of his thrusting, rocking movements, and soon the bed is rattling. He kisses her mouth. His mustache tickles her lips, his lips press on hers, his tongue insinuates itself between her teeth. And she returns his kiss.
He kisses her neck, runs his fingers through her hair, squeezes her breasts against his chest. He kisses her cheeks, her forehead, rocks on her from side to side as if he were a ship and she a tur- bulent sea. Her eyes open to the darkness in the windowless room, and she lets herself go, catches his rhythm with her hips, bucks upward to bring him closer. She rubs his broad shoulders in tight circles, kisses his neck, his jaw, his temple,
presses her legs together, squeezes his balls with her thighs. In the moment when her insides seem to catch on fire, she loves him, believes he loves her, receives the promises he mumbles into her ear as, with a forceful jab, he thrusts himself even deeper, then tenses and collapses, lies on top of her, his breath fanning her hair, tickling her ears.
Krazy Glue
M
ami, you have to get up.’ América shakes Ester gently. “Hhmm? What?” Ester moans, flails her hands as if she
were dancing. She opens her eyes slowly, startles when she sees América leaning over her. “What happened?”
“You have to go to work, Mami,” América whispers, and Ester lifts her head, pushes herself up on her elbows.
“It’s not Tuesday, is it?”
“No, it’s Wednesday. I have to stay home today, so you have to go.”
Ester collapses on the bed again and rolls over. “All right.” Within seconds she’s fast asleep.
“Mami, you have to get up now. Come on.” She jiggles Ester, who swats her with open palms as she would a bothersome fly. “I’m not going to stop until you get up.”
Ester rolls over and gradually pushes herself to a sitting posi- tion with América’s help. “¿Ay! Every bone in my body hurts.” She fumbles in the dark for the light switch. “You should have told me last night. I would have gone to bed earlier.” América draws open the curtains. Dim light creeps into the room. “It’s still dark out!” Ester complains.
“It’s cloudy, it will clear up before you get there.” América looks around the room. “Where is your uniform?”
Ester points to a dresser under the window. She shuffles to the bathroom, the familiar hacking cough of her mornings punctuat- ing every step.
Ester’s room is crammed with relics. One wall is papered with family photographs. She calls
The fan is on, but the door is closed, so it’s hot air that flutters her clothes hanging against the walls like ghosts.
When Correa opens the door, a square of light crosses from one end of the room to the other, broken in the middle when he steps in and gently, quietly, closes the door behind him. She hears him take his clothes off, fold them in the dark, drop them on the chair next to the dresser. He’s a cat. Doesn’t need light to see. She tenses when his weight dips the edge of the bed, creaking the bedsprings. He lies quietly next to her, as if not to wake her. She waits until his hand finds hers, squeezes it. Her breath quickens, but she tries to control it, to not let him hear. He drags her hand across the sheet, up his right hip, onto the soft warm hair on his pubis. He leaves her hand there, crawls his own hand up to her breasts.
She rubs her fingers in the down, grabs his penis, massages it hard and upright. Correa moans, turns over, rolls up her princess nightgown until it’s around her neck, but doesn’t pull it off. He separates her legs with his, kisses her breasts, licks her nipples like a kitten lapping milk, then dives inside her. The first plunge always hurts, always feels as if he were tearing her insides. But she settles into the rhythm of his thrusting, rocking movements, and soon the bed is rattling. He kisses her mouth. His mustache tickles her lips, his lips press on hers, his tongue insinuates itself between her teeth. And she returns his kiss.
He kisses her neck, runs his fingers through her hair, squeezes her breasts against his chest. He kisses her cheeks, her forehead, rocks on her from side to side as if he were a ship and she a tur- bulent sea. Her eyes open to the darkness in the windowless room, and she lets herself go, catches his rhythm with her hips, bucks upward to bring him closer. She rubs his broad shoulders in tight circles, kisses his neck, his jaw, his temple,
presses her legs together, squeezes his balls with her thighs. In the moment when her insides seem to catch on fire, she loves him, believes he loves her, receives the promises he mumbles into her ear as, with a forceful jab, he thrusts himself even deeper, then tenses and collapses, lies on top of her, his breath fanning her hair, tickling her ears.
Krazy Glue
M
ami, you have to get up.’ América shakes Ester gently. “Hhmm? What?” Ester moans, flails her hands as if she
were dancing. She opens her eyes slowly, startles when she sees América leaning over her. “What happened?”
“You have to go to work, Mami,” América whispers, and Ester lifts her head, pushes herself up on her elbows.
“It’s not Tuesday, is it?”
“No, it’s Wednesday. I have to stay home today, so you have to go.”
Ester collapses on the bed again and rolls over. “All right.” Within seconds she’s fast asleep.
“Mami, you have to get up now. Come on.” She jiggles Ester, who swats her with open palms as she would a bothersome fly. “I’m not going to stop until you get up.”
Ester rolls over and gradually pushes herself to a sitting posi- tion with América’s help. “¿Ay! Every bone in my body hurts.” She fumbles in the dark for the light switch. “You should have told me last night. I would have gone to bed earlier.” América draws open the curtains. Dim light creeps into the room. “It’s still dark out!” Ester complains.
“It’s cloudy, it will clear up before you get there.” América looks around the room. “Where is your uniform?”
Ester points to a dresser under the window. She shuffles to the bathroom, the familiar hacking cough of her mornings punctuat- ing every step.
Ester’s room is crammed with relics. One wall is papered with family photographs. She calls
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