Not Everything Was Red-Hot Passion-- Extract from Priscila, vino del misterio

 

 

Not everything was fiery red.

I also remember the soft pink days—like the ones when I’d make up excuses just to stay at Grandma’s house.

Dad would ask why I stayed over on a Monday or Tuesday instead of Friday like my sisters.
I’d tell him it was too hot at home, and Grandma would let me use the air conditioner in her sewing room.

I’d pack a small bag and head over. After 9 p.m., Grandma would go to bed right after her soap opera ended.

That’s when Saúl would pull up in his car, and I’d sneak out to open the gate. I’d rush him inside, and we’d meet behind the garage wall. We’d spend hours — talking and kissing.

Once the shadows in the yard felt familiar and we were sure Grandma wouldn’t wake up, we’d sneak into the house and head to the sewing room.

It was freezing from the AC I’d left running. We’d crawl into bed and hold each other for long, quiet minutes. Saúl always set an alarm on his phone so he wouldn’t fall asleep.

Nothing ever happened. It was just sweet Karina and handsome Saúl—two opposites in a fairy tale.

It sounds unbelievable that this was my story, but it was. The most beautiful and tender one.

The same story I let fall apart because of that damn woman in red.