By the time Olivia met Xavier, she had given up on finding Mister
Right. Her mother Alice claimed it was because she was stubborn, but
Olivia liked to think she was picky. “I have 360-degree radar
that can detect a loser from any direction,” she would say.
Occasionally the radar malfunctioned. The new guy up in Accounting
slipped through with his perfect teeth and hundred-dollar haircut.
So did the lawyer with the midnight blue Porsche. And the gypsy violinist
who made eye contact as she sipped mojitos at a tapas bar.
But she dismissed most men with prickly efficiency. Discouraged them
from calling even before they considered it. Let them know it was
her decision.
“If you’d just go to church,” Alice advised, “I’m
sure you’d meet a nice young man.”
Olivia would roll her eyes. At forty, she had settled comfortably
into a life without complicating entanglements. She rose at six, showered
and blow-dried, inhaled a croissant on the ferry, and spent the morning
listening to customers whine. At noon, she met Cathy for lunch and
they complained about their respective jobs. Then she was on the phones
again until precisely 4:50, when she removed her headset, logged off
her computer, and dashed out the door.
Alice—a cook who believed in the restorative power of desserts—served
dinner at seven, usually in front of the TV. The desserts went straight
to Olivia’s thighs. “But men like girls with a little
meat on them,” Alice rationalized, “and you have such
a pretty face.”
Fridays after work, Olivia and Cathy took their pretty faces out for
martinis. Mostly they watched the action go to younger girls with
thinner thighs. Occasionally someone bought Olivia a drink, and she
had the satisfaction of rebuffing him.
And so it would have continued if 48 years of cigarettes hadn’t
caught up with Alice. Her mother’s dying took Olivia by surprise,
and so did Xavier, who introduced himself at Alice’s funeral.
He was shorter than Olivia, and younger, with a dazzling smile.
“How did you know my mother?” Olivia asked.
“I didn’t. I came to confession and got swept up in this
beautiful service. You have my sympathy.” He reached for her
hand and squeezed it. In a single electric spark, Olivia felt her
radar go blank.
The next morning, she sorted out what had happened after the last
teary relative left: how she had found solace in the circle of Xavier’s
arms. All she could remember was how tenderly he kissed each finger,
then her wrist and the eye of her elbow, until she could feel the
whisper of his breath in her ear.
“I’ll stop now so you won’t remember me with guilt,”
he said.
And all that week, Olivia blocked the pain of Alice’s absence
with thoughts of Xavier’s mouth on her fingertips.
Olivia didn’t discuss Xavier with Cathy, who would have dissected
his every nuance and somehow found him lacking. No. Olivia preferred
to think of Xavier as her mother’s parting gift. He visited
frequently, bringing flowers. Complimented her attempts at cooking,
Taught her how Colombians cumbia’d. Gave Saturday nights new
meaning. And always, he stopped at her earlobe.
It was on one of their customary girls-nights-out when Cathy, who
was always scouting for possibilities, whispered, “Oh-my-god!
Guess who just gave you the eye! Over there, see him? Xavier X.”
Squinting, Olivia spotted Xavier in a booth at the back of the bar.
A camera flashed as the overdone blonde on his left rubbed her generous
cleavage against his shoulder while a puffy-lipped redhead fed him
cherries.
Olivia mustered nonchalance. “Someone you know?”
“Not exactly,” said Cathy. “I saw him in Playgirl.
He’s the King of Cuban Porn!”
“He’s Colombian,” said Olivia before she could stop
herself.
“Whatever,” said Cathy. “He’s hung like a
… Oh-my-god! He’s coming over!”
Xavier caught Olivia by the elbow and without a word steered her out
the door onto the street. The gold medallions on his chest caught
the glare of the passing headlights. “You’ve found me
at the office,” he said. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
“Hardly. That picture pretty much told the story. It’s
real clear why we never… why you never…Why I—obviously—don’t
measure up.”
His finger brushed her chin. “It’s nothing like that,
cariña. I just get tired, is all.”
That night, Olivia set Alice’s ashes on the kitchen table.
“Mama,” she said, “we’ve got to talk.”
And for once, Alice could only listen.
Linda Saldaña manages a group of technical writers
for a software company. When she needs a break from worrying about
nonfiction, she writes short stories. Her work has appeared in Bust
Out Stories, Convolvulus, Roman Candles, and Pacific Sun.
