–¡It seems like all of the young ones are getting married this year!– said tía María Guadalupe.
–Another weekend, another wedding, another tornaboda.–
Tío Miguel Ángel loaded up tía María's plate with tacos dorados and passed her the Tupperware of salsa roja.
–¡You know I've never noticed what beautiful hands you have!– said tía María. She turned to Rosario –Your tio has such handsome hands, ¿doesn't he?–
His hands were smooth and soft, much smoother than the hands of a carpenter ought to be, with a silver band on his left ring finger.
–They may seem beautiful, but they've done many ugly things,– laughed tío Miguel Ángel.
For a moment, Alfredo saw a look of horror in Rosario's eyes, just for a moment, then it was gone. Alfredo thought back over the past few months, the heated discussions he'd had with Rosario. Alfredo grew up in a household with ten brothers. Ten macho brothers, rough-housing, with little time for affection, and little time to let down his tough exterior. When he was blessed with a houseful of five daughters, he didn't know how to act. To him, each daughter was like a pristine porcelain doll, too delicate to touch. What if he somehow went too far in his affections, if his affection were somehow misinterpreted. He didn't dare touch his daughters, hug them, barely even a kiss on a cheek.
And so when Rosario accused him, saying it was his fault, his heart broke. He was ashamed and embarrassed, because he was sure all of his daughters could hear him, sitting on his bed and howling through his tears.
–¡It's your fault!– she had said. –¡You should have protected me! ¡You should have been there!–
Alfredo was so shocked, he didn't have a word to say in his defence.
She had to go through months of therapy to uncover what was behind her pain, with trepidatious hands, lifting the veil of obscurity.
Rosario offered her plate. –And for you, ¿my darling? ¿Carnita, chicken, beef?– said tío Miguel Angel.
It was him. He had done it. He had forced her onto the bed, taken off her clothes, and whatever else. But the only memory she had was darkness, and the powerful image, the reaching out, the thought of two, cold, beautiful hands.
She forced a smile. –Thank you, tío–
"I'm not a plagiarist!" notice
I originally posted this story on my now-defunct site, Trouble In A Bubble. So if there's a copy of it on the web somewhere, that's why.
About me
My name is Kurt Robinson. I grew up in Australia, but now I live in Guadalajara, Jalisco. I write interesting things about voluntaryism, futurism, science fiction, travelling Latin America, and psychedelics. Remember to press follow so you can stay up to date with all the cool shit I post, and follow our podcast where we talk about crazy ideas for open-minded people, here: @paradise-paradox, and like us on Facebook here - The Paradise Paradox
Some other cool posts
Here are some other posts of mine to check out:
Freedom is scary: One method of spreading liberty