polaroids.

i.

She looked like any other tourist, but at least she was slightly better dressed. Her dark brown shirt was tucked into bleached shorts, and a small bag with little fridges attached to her hip swayed when she moved. She'd pushed her sunglasses up into her hair.

"¿Durmio bien?" His Mother asked, pouring orange juice into a tall glass from a crystalline pitcher which struck across the photos on the table.

She nodded quickly, forcing herself to peel her eyes from the white wood. “Sí, señora. ¿Y usted?”

She sounded like she was speaking underwater and had the very un-American decency to look embarrassed. But his Mother didn't seem to mind much, too happy that she was trying.

“¡Bien, bien! ¡Gracias por preguntar¡”

She ruffled her son's hair, leaning over to look at what the girl was focusing on so intently. "¿Qué son esas?"

"O-oh, um," She said sheepishly, leaning over to hide them before deciding against it. "Just - just - um, la foto, no - uh, las fotos,” She fumbled with them, one falling out.

His Mother scanned the photos, putting her finger on one. “¡Oh! ¡Que está al final de la calle! ¡Conchita’s!”

The girl's eyebrows furrowed as she swiveled her head between them. "¿Al fin- “

“¿Quiere ir allí?” His Mother asked, tapping the picture.

She blinked.

“You go?”

She looks to the boy across the table for help, and he watches her over his nose as he continues to eat. His mother snaps at him, jerking her head and pointing to the confused and slightly scared girl, “Pregúntele si está tratando de ir donde está las fotos.”

He sits up, leaning his head around his Mother's elbow. "She wants to know if you want to go," He taps the photo. "A Conchita's."

"Oh, uh, yeah - " Her eyes flutter shut. "I mean, sí."

“Llévela,” His Mother says, and the boy slouches in his seat.

"What?" The girl asked quietly.

His Mother smacks him lightly in the back of the head, and he playfully swats at her hand. "I walk you."

"Oh." Heat rises on her face. "You really don't have to -"

"No choice," He says. Then he adds, "Buy me lunch."

ii.

Her neck swings like a pendulum between the map, the photos, and her phone.

"Mama says your writer?"

"Hmm?" She tilts her head to him before she brings her eyes up. "Oh... yeah. I do."

"Are you good?" He bounces his leg under the cafe table.

"Hmmm ..." Her eyes travel an invisible line before she shrugs. "I don't think I get to decide that."

He quirks an eyebrow. "If no, then who?"

She can't see his eyes through his dark sunglasses. "Hmm... The readers, I guess."

"Many writers don't get noticed until they die. Look at Hemingway."

She scoffs.

"What?"

"Hemingway is - " She tilts her head and clicks her tongue. "Not my first choice."

"Oh?" He leans forward slightly. "Then who is?"

She shrugs again, messing with a corner of the map. "It depends on when we're talking. If we're sticking with the Lost Generation, I'd probably say Woolf. Or Fitzgerald, although if it's Francis or Zelda, nobody knows."

He slouches back, lanky and relaxed, waving a hand. "Fitzgerald is too ... ¿cómo se dice exagerado, excesivo - extra?"

She nods. "Kind of, yes. But I think the world would be a little bit different if we saw things as just a little more .... enchanting, don't you?"

He cracks a little smile. "So you are a writer, eh,"

She smiles back, dropping her eyes to the map.

"Who are those for?"

"Hmm?"

"Las fotos,"

"Oh, I - actually don't know what they're for?"

"Not what," He says, brows peeking up from behind his shades. "Who."

"Oh," Something floats across her eyes as she blinks.

He shits up when the waiter comes with their plates and she gathers the photos into her map.

"You don't need that," He says, tapping the map.

She stares at him. "But - "

"Show me and I'll take you."

"I couldn't possibly ask - "

"Ya estoy aquí," He says. "Y, I know here."

iii.

So they walk over sun-bleached cobblestones and under eons-old bridges. He holds the Polaroids up to the light, one eye screwed shut by the sun and points to the right.

Boys on bikes ring their bells and wave to him.

She breathes in deeply, the breeze brushing the loose hairs stuck to her forehead.

He convinces her to buy helado from a painted truck with vibrant letters. She eats it with a little spoon and he laughs at her.

"Hmm, de esperarse de un turista," He teases with an overdramatic roll of his eyes.

She puffs out her cheeks, grumbling, "I have sensitive teeth,"

"Sí, sí, pobrecita,"

She pouts, nudging his ice cream into his nose. She laughs at his surprised face, and it reminds him of sheep or crows more than bells or anything sweet even if something stirs in his chest at the sound. He tries to grab her ice cream, which drips on his shirt instead. She laughs louder, tears starting to fall out of her eyes. He pauses for a moment, feeling a strange shift in the air. Her laughing has died, but her tears are still falling.

She tries to blink them away.

He raises his hand, hovering near her shoulder.

It drops away.

Her mouth opens and closes, like a fish- like she wants to say something, but the something never comes.

iv.

The climb up the steps is silent.

He's always a few steps ahead, looking down at her near the wall. She slides her hand over the weathered stone, looking down.

About halfway up she stops, leaning over to look down at the sloping grass and out into the distance. Her body seems confused, but that doesn't seem enough to him.

"Oye, Turista," He says. "It's up there."

But she doesn't move. This wind blasts her hair back and she squints into the reddening sky.

"It's nice here," She breathes so quietly he's not even sure he's supposed to hear.

He steps down, one foot pointed upward. "Uh... ¿sí?

She turns and starts back down the stairs.

v.

They sit at a cafe, streetlights burning orange with bugs crowded and whispering in the light. The sounds of men in the bar bleed out to the quiet patio.

She's sipping something with alcohol in it.

She sighs heavily a few times before saying. "I guess I owe you a reason,"

He's bursting at the seams. "No,”

"No," She says, not meeting his eyes. "I - I need to talk about it."

He stares at her.

"My sister - she - the photos were hers. She took - she studied here and -" She lowers her eyes, blinking away the little droplets. "I can't - I can't - "

He places his hand on hers, long fingers brushing the back of her wrist. She brings her thumb around his.

The words start pouring out like a stream, tripping over rocks and pebbles as it goes. "I wanted to see it. I thought if I did - it would - it would be more real, or something, somehow. Is that stupid?"

"No," He breathes. "No."