tell by the arch of her back that she didn’t want to get into it. Instead of pressing her, he ordered a margarita for her. She drank, her eyes on the sea. Only occasionally did she look at him. Increasingly her looks at him became fonder. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his silence, or if there was a more real connection between them. Strangely he found himself both accepting and wanting. A far cry from the predator he knew himself to be. He’d given himself to this woman and found himself emotionally dependant on her glances and decisions and it oddly pleased him. And it was his private wistful smile that he hadn't even realized he’d revealed that gave him away.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s you. Maybe it’s me.” His truth inspired him. “I barely know you and all I can think is that I want to know you better.”
She blushed, hiding any further reaction in her drink.
This encouraged him. They’d talked about the mundane the previous evening, relating disconnected stories of friends and things they’d seen on their travels. Nothing revealing. Nothing personal. Now he wanted to get to know her as a person. He wanted to discover why she’d chosen this backwash Mexican resort as a hang out. He wanted to know about her Army shirt and what it meant to her. He wanted to know why she’d come to him and blushed. Forgotten were some of her first words — You don’t want to be with me . He was so wrapped up in the process of falling in love, his only thought was how she thought of him and what he wanted to be so she could love him too.
By the end of the evening, she’d cast off broad chunks of her armor, revealing a young woman she'd admitted not having seen for a long time. She'd told him her story, and in the catharsis of the telling, wept over the murder of her friends. Ann, Susan and Gretchen had evaporated in an explosion of light and flame when their HUMMER had struck an IED. June had been in the second vehicle and, although she'd left without a scratch, her soul had been shredded by the event.
Eventually they left the restaurant and walked the beach ending up at Fisherman's Square where the locals gathered to pray for divine intervention. The statue rising from the middle of the expanse was so impressive it was out of place in the dusty Mexican port town. One hundred feet tall, it seemed more permanent than the stone upon which it had been built, as if it’d risen through the earth’s crust rather than been built upon it. Cut from a great block of metal, a ten-story fisherman sat upon the back of a giant shrimp, the legs and antenna of the crustacean wrapping about the man’s limbs like tentacles. The detail of the figures was such that they appeared ready to resume life, the monster shrimp returning to the waves to be hunted by the Poseidon-like Mexican fisherman. But it was more than that. Their combative embrace held a sort of serene camaraderie, as if each depended upon the other to survive; more partners than adversaries.
Thomas and June stopped before the statue, looking up and up until they spied the man's Don Quixote head framed by a Milky Way halo in the wide night sky. Several fishermen had gathered nearby. Some prayed silently. Others left fruit at the base of the statue. Still others drank quietly with an eye towards the shrimp. An ancient woman wrapped in layers of a red and orange shawl stood lonely vigil, her weathered face upturned, as if the man would come alive and speak with her if she only waited long enough.
Traveling up the coast from the Chiapas States, he’d been in Puerto Peñasco for a little more than a day before he’d met June. One unifying theme in all the places he'd visited seemed to be the Cult of Catholicism. He'd grown up around churches in America , but Mexicans took it to another level, one that would put even Southern Baptists to shame. They worshiped Mary as if she were a goddess
“What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s you. Maybe it’s me.” His truth inspired him. “I barely know you and all I can think is that I want to know you better.”
She blushed, hiding any further reaction in her drink.
This encouraged him. They’d talked about the mundane the previous evening, relating disconnected stories of friends and things they’d seen on their travels. Nothing revealing. Nothing personal. Now he wanted to get to know her as a person. He wanted to discover why she’d chosen this backwash Mexican resort as a hang out. He wanted to know about her Army shirt and what it meant to her. He wanted to know why she’d come to him and blushed. Forgotten were some of her first words — You don’t want to be with me . He was so wrapped up in the process of falling in love, his only thought was how she thought of him and what he wanted to be so she could love him too.
By the end of the evening, she’d cast off broad chunks of her armor, revealing a young woman she'd admitted not having seen for a long time. She'd told him her story, and in the catharsis of the telling, wept over the murder of her friends. Ann, Susan and Gretchen had evaporated in an explosion of light and flame when their HUMMER had struck an IED. June had been in the second vehicle and, although she'd left without a scratch, her soul had been shredded by the event.
Eventually they left the restaurant and walked the beach ending up at Fisherman's Square where the locals gathered to pray for divine intervention. The statue rising from the middle of the expanse was so impressive it was out of place in the dusty Mexican port town. One hundred feet tall, it seemed more permanent than the stone upon which it had been built, as if it’d risen through the earth’s crust rather than been built upon it. Cut from a great block of metal, a ten-story fisherman sat upon the back of a giant shrimp, the legs and antenna of the crustacean wrapping about the man’s limbs like tentacles. The detail of the figures was such that they appeared ready to resume life, the monster shrimp returning to the waves to be hunted by the Poseidon-like Mexican fisherman. But it was more than that. Their combative embrace held a sort of serene camaraderie, as if each depended upon the other to survive; more partners than adversaries.
Thomas and June stopped before the statue, looking up and up until they spied the man's Don Quixote head framed by a Milky Way halo in the wide night sky. Several fishermen had gathered nearby. Some prayed silently. Others left fruit at the base of the statue. Still others drank quietly with an eye towards the shrimp. An ancient woman wrapped in layers of a red and orange shawl stood lonely vigil, her weathered face upturned, as if the man would come alive and speak with her if she only waited long enough.
Traveling up the coast from the Chiapas States, he’d been in Puerto Peñasco for a little more than a day before he’d met June. One unifying theme in all the places he'd visited seemed to be the Cult of Catholicism. He'd grown up around churches in America , but Mexicans took it to another level, one that would put even Southern Baptists to shame. They worshiped Mary as if she were a goddess
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