Anton
My plan was working.
It was a technique I'd never thought I'd have to use, but here I was, keeping her in my life with friendship.
Friendship. It made me laugh. We were never meant to be friends, a fact that she and I were both very aware of.
But, this friendship with Artemisia was allowing me closer to her than I'd ever been before.
Like now for example, we were sat in a bar in Queens playing cards with a few regulars, old guys who smoked inside and drank rum.
Colombians.
They loved Artemisia, and seeing her talk in her perfect Spanish with her perfect Colombian accent so freely made me smile.
I was having fun.
I was actually enjoying us being friends.
Fucking hell.
"Mierda," she smirked as she looked back down at her hand.
(Spanish: Bullshit)
The old man opposite her groaned, the cigarette between his lips staying in place as she turned over the cards and exposed his lie.
The two other men jeered and banged the table, laughing at their friend's demise to the beautiful young woman. I chuckled, watching as a huge grin spread along her lips as she pushed the pile of cards towards the man.
"Como eres tan buena en esto artemisia? Nos ganáis siempre." The man sighed, a puff of smoke emerging from his lips. Artemisia chuckled as she lit her own.
(Spanish: How are you so good at this Artemisia? You beat us every time)
"Soy bueno leyendote Cesar. Golpeas tu rodilla un poco cada vez que mientes, y eso hace que tu camisa se mueva." She grinned, and the old man gasped before muttering to himself.
(Spanish: I'm good at reading you Cesar. You tap your knee a tiny bit every time you lie, and that makes your shirt move)
I laughed and watched as the round commenced before leaning over and mumbling to her, "Maybe a poker career after all of this is done won't be the worst thing in the world."
"I'm actually very happy coming here and playing with these guys every day, poker's overrated." She mused, looking over at me. She had that glint in her eye, filled with kindness and a sense of mischief.
"No vamos a estar por aquí por mucho tiempo arté, tal vez usted puede hacer más dinero con el póquer y luego pagar por mi casa de cuidado." One of them chuckled, and Artemisia scowled at him with a shake of her head.
(Spanish: we won't be around for too much longer Arté, maybe you can make more money from poker and then pay for my care home)
"Estúpido, no digas esas cosas. Voy a pagar por ello a pesar de todo, pero tienes mucho más tiempo en el reloj." She muttered as she watched him place his card down. I smiled to myself, shaking my head.
(Spanish: Stupid, don't say stuff like that. I'm paying for it regardless, but you've got a lot more time left on the clock)
This was how I knew we were getting somewhere.
It was a Friday night and Artemisia had brought me to her weekly date with three old men who played cards, chatted about their wives, kids and grandkids, smoked cigarettes like chimneys, and made her feel connected with her roots again.
And I was here with her.
I doubt she'd ever brought anyone else considering the exclamation on their faces when I arrived at the table.
YOU ARE READING
Black Widow | 18+
General FictionYes, to love someone in itself was simple, but to express that love? It wasn't something i felt I had in me. I could kill men with my bare hands, watch them die slow deaths, sit in horrendously awkward or tense situations. But I couldn't allow mysel...
