It has to be the pussy for Enrique, he cannot do it himself,’ Here Zelia made the hand-gesture, ‘Or even a BJ. It has to be la puchita, la gatita,...the pussy.’ In the middle of the meal, Zelia looked at me and explained, as she rose from her chair, her smile and her dimples in full bloom, ‘Can you believe it, he can’t wait until after we eat. He tells me he can smell my puchita. He’s like a wild cat, or something!’ And they did not bother to go to the bedroom, but Enrique had her there at the. Those same jobs would soon separate us, sending us toward opposite sides of the country as we pursued our careers. Yet my mind remained elsewhere and the years passed by. A few years later, a card arrived in the mail. It was from Monica, I'd recognized her handwriting, having memorized her cursive style. Any other day I'd have been delighted to have received this card with my heart skipping a beat and rising into my throat while opening the envelope. But this wasn't just any card. It wasn't a. More

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