Free Bulletproof Vest by Maria Venegas

He waited for days, until finally, there was a response. He tore into the letter the minute it was in his hand, and, in it, she wrote that she would much appreciate him leaving her alone, as ever since the day he had appeared on the boulder she was practically a prisoner in her own home.
    â€œA prisoner?” he repeated later that night at a local tavern while knocking them back, lifting his head off the bar just long enough to shove more money at the musicians and request the same two songs again. Ever since the day he had laid eyes on her, all those sappy love ballads had taken on a whole new meaning. It was as though every song ever written by a man in despair over a woman had been written just for him. While the musicians played, it occurred to him that it was she, not he, who needed to be listening to those lyrics—only then might she understand how she was tormenting him.
    From miles around they heard him coming, the drums and horns echoing off the ridge as he and the musicians made their way to her house. They took their stance across the river, facing her courtyard, and from there they sent the music thundering through her front door. For months, he dragged the musicians from the rodeos, the cockfights, and the fiestas back to her house, to serenade her. Had Pascuala had a father, he would have never gotten away with his antics, but her father had been killed when she was seven years old.
    Though she never stepped outside, he knew that she heard the music, and he also knew that sooner or later their paths were bound to cross again, and for that specific moment, he had committed to memory everything he wanted to say to her. Six months later, during las ferias, he and Salvador were strolling through the fairgrounds, making their way along the brightly lit cobblestone streets, when in front of the Ferris wheel they ran into Pascuala and her cousin Carmela. Standing before her sent the flood of everything he wanted to say rushing to the tip of his tongue and rendering him, momentarily, mute.
    â€œYou guys should take a ride on the Ferris wheel,” said Salvador, smacking him on the back as if to dislodge something. “Come on, my treat,” he said, offering an arm to Carmela, who took it eagerly.
    Sitting next to Pascuala made him feel as though his entire being were vibrating on a different frequency. He stared at her delicate hands, her slim fingers resting on the metal rail, and had to resist the urge to take her hand in his. He gripped his knees and stared straight ahead as they were carried up toward the darkening sky. With each rotation, he felt time itself slipping away. It had been two and a half years since he had first laid eyes on her, and who knew when—if ever—he would be in such proximity to her. He drew a deep breath and turned to face her.
    â€œMire, Pascuala,” he said. “I’m twenty years old. I’m ready to get married and start a family, and I would like for you to be the mother of my children.”
    She kept her gaze on the horizon, where the last glowing light of day was fading behind the silhouette of the mountains. He stared at her profile, traced the slender line of her nose down to her full lips, and willed them to move, to say something, to say yes, please, say yes.
    â€œI don’t plan on marrying you or anyone, for that matter,” she said, and then they were descending. The ground spinning out from under them, the noise of the fair swelling up, as smoke rose from a fire pit where a whole pig rotated above the flames. “I’ve been contemplating what I might want to do with my life,” she said, as once again they were being carried toward the sky, “and I’ve decided to become a nun.” With a violent jerk, the Ferris wheel came to a sudden stop, leaving them suspended at the top, swaying back and forth at the tipping point.
    â€œA nun?” He repeated later that night as he had one stiff one after another at the