—Sure, I’ll finish this part and I’ll be right there—I replied.
Her garden was immaculate, with pink bougainvillea climbing the fence. But the lawnmower lay motionless in the middle of the lawn, like a weary old beast. I knelt down to check the fuel filter and line. The mechanical problem ceased to matter. I was distracted by the scent of mint wafting through the air, the strange closeness between us.
“Do you think it’s beyond repair?” he asked playfully.
“Maybe it’s just getting old… like many things in this neighborhood,” I said without thinking, and immediately feared I had been imprudent.
But she let out a soft laugh.
Then he fell silent, watching me from the portico covered with Talavera tiles. Then he said:
—Come in. Come in… I need you to do that with me right now.
The house was cool, with light yellow walls and paintings of Oaxacan landscapes hanging on them. On a shelf were photos of her with a tall man who smiled broadly. Books were stacked on both sides, and the air smelled of old paper and wood.
Suddenly I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around.
