Maria tells me this story when I meet her while visiting my grandmother, who lives with my aunt, next door to another aunt and down the street from more aunts and a few uncles. When we meet, I tell her I already know everything there is to know about her. Information travels at alarming speed through the intricate gossip network of our family.
She looks at me the way a man might. She makes such pronouncements with regularity. She has been dying for nearly twenty years but no one lives forever. Maria has a big ass. My grandmother tells Maria this regularly.
She has reached that age where she lacks tact. Maria treats my grandmother like her own. They love to argue about the shows they watch. They talk about the islands where they were born, the warmth of suns they once knew.
On the first night, my grandmother falls asleep watching the evening news. News of war exhausts her. Maria and I smoke in the small backyard, leaning against a brick wall. I ask for her real name and she waves a hand limply. Her accent is familiar. The evening is cold, a cold to which our island skin is not accustomed; it hurts to breathe too deeply.
When Maria exhales, I inhale. Maria shrugs, ashes her cigarette. I can no longer see the edges of her face. She steps closer, leans in until I can feel her breasts against mine. We fall into a routine over the next several days. When Maria is ready to smoke, she taps my shoulder, lets her fingers rest too long, and I follow her outside.
