The Green Ones

Episode 1, Part 14

In the next room, Neca closes the door before removing his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I retreat, looking for a heavy object to wield.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Ladies first.” He bows—the gesture slightly less irritating than his wink—and indicates a closed door behind me. We’re already in the bedroom. I have no idea where he expects us to end up, but I’m not going there voluntarily. Maybe he’s used to other girls melting at the chance.

“Well? What’s it going to be? We’ve got several hours to blow, and I’m feeling pretty dirty myself. You?”

“I most certainly do not. You smarmy, arrogant little weasel. If you even try—”

“Look, I said I was sorry. I’ll even put my shirt back on.” He pulls the crusty garment over his head, his chest muscles rippling as he does so. “Now, are you going to shower first or not?”

“I—” biting my tongue, I turn again to look at the closed door. Slowly I walk up to it and slide it open. It’s a bathroom, a private bathhouse built into the side of the bedroom. “Of course I am,” I point my finger at him, “and let that be a lesson to you.” I slip inside the bathroom and close the door. Great, I don’t even understand what I just said. Now I seem like a cheche and crazy.

Slipping out of my muddy clothes, I fill the entire room with steam. After I get over the fact I’m taking a private, hot shower in the middle of the day, I replay the conversation with Neca over and over in my mind. By the time I shut off the water, I’ve decided I never outright mentioned sex. While clearly embarrassing myself, my behavior wasn’t that far off from how I’ve treated him all day.

I pound my forehead on the tile wall. Why am I such a jerk? Carefully, I towel off, making sure not to slip on the wet floor. Some bits of mud have refused to find the drain. I start to smear them with my foot, but figure Neca will only leave more. I might as well come back later and clean once instead of twice.

I catch myself being mean again, even if only in my thoughts. Worse than an addiction, it’s part of me at a subconscious level. I hang up my towel and take one look at my tzotzomatli and pantslying in a dirty heap on the floor. Now what do I do? There’s nothing else to wear, and besides, I’d never leave my single favorite possession behind.

I turn the water back on and launder the garments. As I wring them, I remind myself that I’m not always a jerk. My fear of losing Olin has put me on edge. And Neca is really the only person who brings out the worst in me. So in a way, it’s his fault.

I huff and slap my wet braid on the counter. I look at myself in the mirror, the first time I can remember doing so this closely, and in the nude, for years. The last time I had the opportunity I was only a little girl. I’m not a bad person. And all in all, I’m not that awful to look at. If not actively infected, I’m sure I would have had my choice of at least a few husbands.

The thought of getting married and having children passes like bats from a cave. I cringe, close my eyes, and wait for the last of it to fade. I like bats more than babies. Still, knowing I’ll never be given the option…

I look at the girl in the mirror again—not quite a woman, not yet. I determine the fact will remain my secret until it’s no longer a fact. There’s a light knock at the door. “Don’t come in!” I reach for the towel, nearly slipping in the process.

“Don’t worry, I was just hoping to get a shot at that shower before nightfall. Everything okay in there?”

I’ve been piddling around for nearly an hour. It wouldn’t be right to make him wait any longer, and my tzotzomatli won’t be dry enough to wear for a few more hours at least. I’ve already got the towel halfway draped over me. I hesitate. There’s barely enough fabric, if at all. Pulling the second towel off the rack, I wonder if there is a way to combine them.

Then I remember the way Neca spoke of me to the immortal woman, making excuses for my backwardness. Prude, am I? I’ll show him traditional.

I wrap the first towel tightly around my braid and coil the whole thing on top of my head, tucking it firmly in place the way my mother taught me as a little girl. Wrapping the second towel around me, I cringe, barraged with doubts. It’s a good thing my chest isn’t any bigger, or the fabric wouldn’t stretch far enough south to conceal the basics.

I tug the bottom and slouch to provide a bit more coverage. But every time I breathe in, the towel slides up. The nitpicking and fretting only angers me further. What do I have to be ashamed of?

 Straightening my shoulders, I give myself a final look in the mirror and will the little girl to grow up. Anything Mr. Sexypants can do, I can do better.