Free St. Nacho's by Z. A. Maxfield Page B

guess,” I murmured, feeling a little strange.
    “Nah, it’s m’hijo’s cooking. No one can resist a guy who cooks,” said Oscar, grinning at Tomas. Everyone agreed.
    St. Nacho’s
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    “You can use the computer in the office,” said Jim. “I’ll set you up with your own password. Alfred does the official Nacho’s Bar business work on it, but that’s really all we use it for, and he’s rarely here in the mornings. What are you going to look up first?” He grinned.
    “I can think of a few things I’d want to know how to say.”
    “Uh,” I said, thinking this could get out of hand fast. “I just want to learn the basics.
    You know. Conversation.”
    “Oh,” he said. “How disappointing.” I know I was blushing, thinking about the previous night and wondering whether the first thing I’d do would be to establish a signed safe word.
    “Well, thank you,” I said, probably a little stiffly. “You just let me know when it’s free and I’ll use it then.” I finished my breakfast and went to the kitchen.
    There’s a certain geographical area of safety around prepping onions. There were other kitchen helpers, three busboys besides Shawn, and four waiters. For various reasons, I hadn’t made friends with them yet. We’d exchanged tentative smiles and nodded at one another, but the other kitchen guys spoke only broken English, and my second language, sketchy as it was, was Japanese.
    I was aware that I’d landed in Santo Ignacio behind all kinds of language barriers. I was beginning to learn a little Spanish, and the guys were warming up to me. None of them were gay, and they had mixed feelings about me, I could tell, and about Oscar and Tomas, who were ambiguous in a teasing way but still completely undemonstrative.
    On the one hand, Nacho’s was definitely a gay bar, and mostly patronized by men at night. Yet on the other hand, because of Shawn, it seemed to be where the local deaf kids hung out, regardless of gender, and it had the number one family brunch and drew people from all over. Because of that sometimes it felt like purgatory, like we were all at some kind of way station, a place for nourishing the spirit and reflecting until we were ready to move on. The lifers, as I liked to call Jim and Alfred, never moved on at all.
    Shawn showed up at five or so, and as he was throwing on his work apron I hit him with my new skill, asking him in sign language, “How was your day?” This had taken me most of the morning to perfect.
    He stared at me for a while with something nice in his eyes. “Fine, how was yours?” Well. Shit. I had nothing. He grinned and pulled me into the employee bathroom to kiss me.
    “Hey,” I said.
    “Your hands smell like onions and garlic,” he said, holding one up to his nose. He pushed me against the door.
    “I’ve been prepping veg,” I said. I made the sign for kiss me, and he did. I felt for his belt buckle, and he caught my hand.
    44 Z. A. Maxfield
    “No,” he said. He sucked up a mark on my neck, under my tattoo. I could feel the heat from his mouth, his breath. It was becoming a habit with him, starting things and not following through.
    “What the hell?” I spoke into his mouth.
    “What?” he asked, perplexed.
    I gestured to his hands and his buckle.
    “I’m working; so are you.” He stared at me. “I just wanted a kiss.”
    “Oh,” I said, feeling stupid.
    “I could fuck you every time we kiss, but I’d have to kiss you less.”
    “Or fuck me more.” I grinned. I think he read my lips, based on the sparkle in his eyes.
    “Later, it’s a promise.” He left the bathroom and I waited a few minutes until I had myself under better control. I looked in the mirror and I didn’t recognize myself for a second. Of course, regular sleep and showers made a difference, but I thought I looked altered somehow in other ways. My eyes were the same green as always but there was less tightness about them. I wasn’t holding my jaw as though any minute