Free Ghost Radio by Leopoldo Gout

answered.
    â€œLet’s go eat something more substantial.”
    Without another word, she headed for the apartment door. I followed. Just as we were crossing the threshold, Alberto came up to us.
    â€œWhere you going?” he asked Alondra.
    â€œI’m having dinner with my friend Joaquin here.”
    I’d known Alberto for some time. In fact, I’d invited him onto my program, back when it followed the conventional cultural broadcasting model. He was upset, but keeping his cool. Barely.
    At the time, Alondra’s bluntness, while refreshing, seemed a littlecruel to me. I couldn’t help identifying with poor Alberto. I’d been “that guy” more than once. Hell, we all have.
    â€œYou want me to come along?” he asked feebly.
    â€œYou should stay with your guests,” Alondra said, but in a tone that made it sound more like “fuck off.”
    â€œWhen will you be back?”
    â€œNot sure. I’ll have to come back eventually, my stuff is here. Don’t wait up.”
    I said good-bye, but Alberto didn’t answer. We left silently, not speaking until we climbed into my car.
    â€œWhat was that? It seemed like you were a little mean.”
    â€œI behaved impeccably,” Alondra responded. “Where are we going?”
    I took her to Charco de las Ranas for tacos. It wasn’t easy for us to pick up the conversation again, which was mostly my fault; I kept expecting an explanation.
    For a while I feigned interest, but I couldn’t focus on what Alondra was telling me about popular myths and traditions in Papua, and eventually I interrupted:
    â€œIt seemed like something serious happened with Alberto back there. Do you have any idea what it might have been? He acted jealous.”
    â€œYeah, I suppose so.”
    â€œDoes he have any reason to be?”
    â€œPeople have reasons for a lot of stupid shit,” she answered.
    â€œI guess it might be because you’ve been with him and his group for a while. He must feel a certain attachment or affection for you. Maybe he was disappointed that you left in the middle of his party,” I said, choosing my words carefully so they wouldn’t sound like an accusation.
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œBut you don’t think so.”
    She shook her head.
    â€œWhat do you think it is?”
    â€œI fucked him a few times,” she said, biting into her beefsteak taco.
    I nearly choked on my glass of horchata.
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œI thought you knew. But don’t worry, it’s meaningless.”
    â€œWhere I come from, doing something like that to another man can end up costing you your life,” I said, although inwardly I doubted that this would be the case with Alberto and me.
    â€œDon’t be dramatic. That’s the way it goes. I’m crashing at his place. I got bored. It happens.”
    â€œBut still…”
    â€œI’m not cheating on anyone, Joaquin. Eat your tacos.”
    I didn’t have an answer for this woman, who seemed more attractive, fascinating, and dangerous with each passing moment.
    At this point, Alondra changed the subject. Clearly she wasn’t interested in talking about Alberto anymore. And, I have to admit, I was grateful. We finished eating, and on the way to the car, she asked me where I wanted to go. I suggested a bar, and she agreed, so I decided to take her to a hole in the wall over on Medellín Avenue: a ruined garage where musicians, artists, gang members, politicians, and other bums came to drink and dance until dawn. The noise was overwhelming but the ambience was worth it; Alondra seemed to enjoy herself.
    It was hot in the club, so I took off the jacket I’d been wearing all night. Alondra noticed my forearm. I have an odd tattoo that often raises an eyebrow or two, but nothing prepared me for Alondra’s reaction.
    She grabbed my arm and pulled me into a corner of the club where the lighting was better. She studied