“Cooch?” I ask, puzzled but smiling at the sound ofthe word on my lips.
She shrugs. “Coño.”
I shake my head slightly. “I am not sure I like thiscooch. It sounds like a cartoon character, a name far toosilly for something as serious as your pussy.”
She grins at me and her face lights up like asparkler. “I have a serious pussy?”
“Well, let’s just say I take your pussy veryseriously,” I say. I run my thumb over her lips and thensay, “Today went very well. Pedro, the owner, andAntonio, they want me to take over Diego’s position inJanuary. They want me to be the coach.”
Her eyes widen into shining pools. “Are youserious?”
“As serious as your pussy.”
“Mateo,” she exclaims, pushing herself up. “Theywant you to be coach? What about that other guy, theEnglish dude?”
“Warren? They aren’t too sure about him. Theywant a Spaniard and a former teammate to have the job.Diego is leaving to coach Argentina in the new year so Iam to be his replacement. I will have all this time tolearn and see if I can do the job.”
“Of course you can do the job,” Vera says, thoughthe only time she’s seen me play was in Las Palabras,where I failed miserably thanks to my knee, and a fewold Atlético games that someone uploaded ontoYouTube. “You can do anything.”
I cock my head, considering that. “I don’t know,” Isay unsurely. “I am a bit rusty. I have never coached. Idon’t know how to lead.”
She is staring at me like I could never let her down.I’m not sure if I like it. “Oh, Mateo. You have no idea,do you?”
“What?”
“You don’t know how to lead,” she repeats,mocking it. “In Las Palabras, you were always theleader. Everyone gravitated toward you because theyrecognized that. Do you not remember your ownpresentation about creating your own destiny? That’swhat you do, Mateo. You create. You lead. Everyoneelse follows.”
“I follow you,” I tell her, kissing the tip of her nose.
“You follow my coño,” she says.
I place my hands on either side of her face and holdher as I stare deep into her eyes. “I follow every part ofyou, everywhere. You go before me, Vera. You alwayswill.”
As she sometimes does when I’m being especiallyhonest, she looks away shyly. It’s cute, like she can’tbelieve that I could feel the way that I do about her. Butsometimes, most times, I just want her to believe it, toown it.
“Anyway,” she says, quickly skirting over what Isaid, “you do have what it takes, Mateo. I think thiscould be the best thing that could happen to you. You’llbe a part of what you love again, in it as much as youcan be. But it’s not about what I think.”
“It is about what you think.”
“It’s about what you think,” she says. “So what didyou tell them?”
I lay my head back against the couch cushions andstare at the ceiling. “They are giving me until Friday tothink about it.”
“Good,” she says. “By then you’ll know what youwant, if not sooner.”
But the thing is, all I really want is her.
Somehow, the night seems to be hotter than the day. Theair is thick and sweltering, like simmering soup, as Veraand I walk hand in hand to my parents’ front door. Theyhave no air-conditioning inside and I’m already chastising myself for wearing asuit, but even pushing forty, it’s hard not to dress up foryour parents. My mother had instilled it in me at a youngage, to always look nice for her, if not for my father, andit’s something I do now for Carmen, my stepmother.
We stand on the front steps and I squeeze Vera’shand appreciatively. We have dinner at their houseusually once a month, on whatever day my sister Luciacan fit into her social calendar. Vera gets along very wellwith my parents, especially now that she’s picked up abit of Spanish and can converse more with my non-English speaking father. Originally she was going to tryteaching him English but my father has the patience of acat, and that never amounted to anything.
Carmen opens the door with a bright smile on herface, the smell of anchovies and basil wafting in frombehind her. She’s quite a bit younger than my father, butno matter her age, she seems to give off this air ofvitality. I think she keeps my father young. Shedefinitely keeps the old grump on his toes.
“Mateo,” she cries out, and pulls me into a hardembrace. She smells like sage and earth, and her largeearrings rattle as she pulls away, holding me at arm’slength while she looks me over, as if I am just a boy andnot a man. I don’t mind.
She sweeps her eyes to Vera and takes her in like acool glass of water. It helps that Vera is dressed in ametallic silver shift dress, the kind you’d see in afuturistic version of the 1960s.
“Vera,” she says, “you look beautiful. Your dress,you’re really becoming quite stylish.”
Vera waves away the compliment as pink stains theapples of her cheeks. “Blame it on Spain,” she says witha smile. It’s true though, shopping in the windingalleyways of Madrid with her friend Claudia has becomeone of her favorite activities, and every day her ownsense of style and well-being seems to blossom.
I am aware that I am beaming at Vera proudly whenCarmen pinches my cheek quickly and says in Spanish,“You’re still as smitten as the first time. That makes mehappy, Mateo.”
Vera shoots me an inquisitive glance but I onlypress my hand into her lower back and usher her insidethe house.
There is a fan in every room, their constant whirringcompeting with the sultry sounds of Ella Fitzgerald onthe record player. My father is sitting in the living roomwith a glass of wine beside an open bottle, leaning backin his chair, eyes closed.
“Ignore him,” Carmen says, gesturing for us to sitdown while she places two extra glasses beside thebottle. “He’s pretending to be asleep. He’s mad at mebecause I wouldn’t let him put extra anchovies into thesauce.”
Sure enough, the moment she turns and heads backinto the kitchen, my father opens one eye in a rathercomedic gesture.
“Don’t worry, she’s gone,” Vera says in Spanish asI pour ourselves some wine.
My father smirks at her appreciatively and my chestfeels warm. I never have any doubts when it comes toour relationship, but I know most people do. It’s tiring tohave to explain why I’m with her, why she’s with me,why I left my wife, how I could do such a thing.