Free The Barcelona Brothers by Carlos Zanón, John Cullen

to Luis or Ángel’s body, and walked away from the filing station at a decent clip, but without running or even looking back.
    “You killed him.”
    “Ná
, I only punched him out.”
    The van pulled away and ran through the lights at the first three intersections they came to. The first light was green, the second amber, and the third red. It was like one of those PlayStation games where you keep eating up obstacles. As they hurtled along, nobody spoke. It was always awkward when Epi, the ex-boyfriend, drove them to the Granada Streetapartment, but this time it seemed more awkward than ever. After his passengers got out, Epi, who loved routine, usually pulled away violently so that Tiffany would know that once again she’d broken his heart. It was a little like the old
Avengers
comic books, where the Falcon yields Jane to a nonhuman. But Tiffany’s considered conclusion was that it wasn’t her fault if Epi had no pride and continued to act as their facilitator. If he didn’t want to go out with them, all he had to do was to say no and pass up the chance.
    They didn’t take the time to go up to the apartment; they did it in the lobby. Tiffany closed her eyes. All those images flooded over her—the gasoline, the smell of fear and perspiration, the alcohol, the spasm of violence, the young man jerking in convulsions on the gray asphalt, the streetlights hurtling toward the van at top speed—and paralyzed her senses. Once inside the apartment, they did it again. Tanveer’s hand was swelling up. His fingers, constrained by the rings he wore, looked as though they were going to explode. A face is full of bones. Sometimes one forgets that. In the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and took off the rings, one by one, holding his aching hand under the cool running water.
    “Whore.”
    “I knew you’d come.”
    But the last time they saw each other is obstinate, it imposes itself on her memories. It wants to come forward, it wants to be present. Tiffany can’t always prevent bitter images of that last night, the night when they celebrated Tanveer’s birthday,from filling her head. Yes, that night was different. Passion hardly deigned to make an appearance; it was her rage and jealousy, not her romantic passion, that bit Tanveer’s face and shoulder. When they entered the apartment, he hit her, but only to get her off of him. He didn’t want to fuck and decided to leave again shortly after they arrived. Jealous and confused, Tiffany demanded that he stay, but he paid no attention to her. It was then that stories about abandoned women sounded inside her head, women in limbo waiting for a call that never comes, women driven mad by rejection. Stories about players who don’t know enough to withdraw from the game in time and so lose everything.
    That night, Tiffany made a vow: never again. Sooner or later, as he’d done before, more than once, he’d come creeping back and beg her to go to bed with him. And she’d refuse. She would, indeed she would. Before too long, the alcohol knocked her out. When she woke up some minutes later—it was still night—she felt dirty and discarded. In a few hours she’d be taking Percy to nursery school. She thought she couldn’t bear the day, and it was only beginning. She went down to the street. In a bar, she drank a cup of coffee, which did her good—and strengthened her resolution not to see Tanveer again. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she glanced at her cell phone to see if there was a call from him. There wasn’t. Maybe it was too soon for him to request a second chance. But that morning was nearly a month ago, and she hasn’t heard from the no-good son of a bitch since. He drives her crazy.
    She’s fed up. Fed up with men and fed up with waiting. That’s why she rises from the bed, resolved on leaving the apartment at once. She doesn’t want to meet Epi there anyway, nor does she care whether he explains what’s going on or not. She’s Tiffany Brisette. The