Second Act

Chapter 1

Sol lay a heavy cement block onto the soft mortar and scraped the excess goop away with a trowel. Her lively green and yellow parakeets chirped happily in their cage. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the earthy smell of cement and morning air. She took a sip of her rich coffee from a clay taza. There was nothing like boiled coffee with a hearty spoonful of raw sugar. The moment felt very idyllic to her. She finally had her own place and was able to do what she wanted with her life.

The house, an inheritance from her abuelita, was a study two-story structure on the outskirts of Celaya. She enjoyed not living in el centro because she had never been much for big city living. Sol sighed slightly as she remembered her mother's objections to her plan for the house.

"Sol," she had complained, "running a boarding house is a desecration of your abuelita's house!"

"Mamá," Sol had countered, "Abue always loved having company. Now her house can hold visitors all the time. It will be alegre and full of life all the time, just like when she was alive. Wouldn't it be sad for me to just rattle around this big house all by myself?"

"Well, you wouldn't be alone if you got married and filled it with my nietos," her mother had said pointedly.

Sol knew that renting out the second floor of the house and doing odd jobs around the neighborhood didn't seem like a life's calling to her family. As far as they were concerned, she was wasting her potential.

"Four years of college and you decide to fix toilets for a living," her mother had groused.

"Todo trabajo es digno," Sol had countered, using her mother's own words about the worthiness of all work against her.

But as she scooped out more mortar and slathered it onto the top of one of the cement blocks, she felt quiet and peaceful, a feeling she had not experienced during her entire college career. College had been all about proving her worth to the world, at an obscene expense to her and her parents. But a degree alone could not guarantee a good job. She couldn't even count the number of college friends of hers who were now driving Ubers. She sighed again, making a brushing motion over her shoulders.

"I brush all of these expectations off my shoulders," she said aloud. "I belong to myself," she affirmed as a reminder that she was responsible for her own happiness.

Suddenly, her moment of reflection was broken by a loud cracking sound. She looked up to see a tall Asian man struggling with two large suitcases. One of his errant suitcases had cracked her favorite clay pot where she grew the fragrant, pungent local oregano that grew all over Mexico. Not giving him another glance, she ran to her broken pot.

"¡Ay, que la canción!" she muttered. "You broke my pot!" She busied herself picking up the small shards of earthenware.

The man, looking positively stricken, reached into his pocket to remove some pesos he had just gotten from the casa de cambio. "I pay," he said in English, as he assumed correctly it was the only language they both could understand.

"No," she said, pushing his hand away. "I don't want your money. It's just that this pot was hand-painted by an Indigenous woman in Oaxaca," Sol lamented.

Shownu was lost. Her English was clearly better than his. He held out the money again, this time with a sad frown that showed his sincerity.

Sol relented and gave him a wide smile. It was only at that moment that she noticed how handsome he was. His skin was flawless and somehow glowing from within. His shoulders were broad and the biceps that peeked out of his tight blue T-shirt were large and toned. She tried not to look at his earnest face and searching eyes.