The Chimi Truck

I was angry. Not the hot, explosive anger that makes you scream at traffic. The cold, heavy anger that sits in your stomach like a stone.

Max DeLuca had almost kissed me. And then he had looked at me like I was the mistake.

“I can’t.”

I stabbed the "Print" button on the copier harder than necessary.

"The machine did nothing to you, Jefa," Yulissa said from her stool, not looking up from her phone.

"He thinks he is better than us," I muttered, grabbing a stack of fresh flyers. "He comes to the club, he uses the bachata to feel alive, and then he runs back to the glass tower because he is afraid of getting his hands dirty."

"Or maybe he is married," Yulissa pointed out. "And he has a conscience. Which is rare for a man in a linen suit."

I froze. Yulissa didn't know about the wife. I hadn't told anyone.

"He is married to his job," I deflected.

The bell jingled.

I didn't look up. "We are closed for lunch."

"I brought peace offerings."

The voice was deep, American, and annoyingly apologetic.

I looked up. Max was standing there. But he didn't look like the stiff architect from the club. He had ditched the blazer. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was holding two plastic bags that smelled of grease and heaven.

"I don't want your peace offering," I said, crossing my arms.

"It's chimi," he said. "From the truck on the Malecón. Joselito's."

My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl. Joselito's was the best chimichurri burger in the city. It was greasy, salty, and absolutely terrible for you.

"You went to a street truck?" I asked, skeptical. "Did you bring a sanitizer crew with you?"

"I went alone," he said, walking to the counter. He placed the bags down. "I asked for 'con to’' (with everything). The guy looked at me like I was suicidal."

I fought a smile. "You ordered it with everything? Even the cabbage?"

"Especially the cabbage." He looked at me, his eyes losing the playful glint.

"Last night," he said quietly, "Cata made us have dinner at L’Azure. I ate a seared scallop that cost forty dollars. It was perfect. It was geometric."

He opened the bag of chimichurri, the smell of garlic and grease filling the shop.

"It tasted like nothing," he whispered. "It tasted like silence. I realized... I’m starving, Sofía. I don't want perfect anymore. I want flavor."

"Sofía, about last night..."

"Don't," I said, holding up a hand. "You panicked. It happens. You are a tourist, Max. You got caught up in the rhythm. Let's just eat the burger before it gets cold."

I wasn't going to let him apologize. If he apologized, it made it real. If we just ate, we were just friends.

We sat on the stools by the window. I unwrapped the foil. The chimi was a mess of toasted bread, seasoned meat, cabbage, and pink sauce.

Max took a bite. Sauce dripped onto his thumb. He didn't wipe it with a napkin; he licked it off.

It was such a human, un-architect-like gesture that my chest tighted.

"So," I said, watching him. "Why are you really here, Max? And don't tell me it's the marble."

Max chewed slowly. He looked out the window at the busy street.

"I feel like a fraud," he said quietly.

I stopped eating. "What?"

"My whole life," he said. "I design these buildings. Perfect. Clean. Secure. But I don't build them. I don't touch the materials. I just draw lines on a screen. And lately... I feel like if someone poked me, I would collapse. Like the fake arches at the hotel."

He looked at me.

"Last night... on the dance floor... that was the first time in ten years I didn't feel fake. And it terrified me."

I softened. I knew that feeling. The feeling of holding up a wall that was too heavy.

"I know about fraud," I admitted, looking down at my food. "You see the 'Jefa' shirt? You see the shop?"

"I see a successful business," he said.

"You see a drowning woman," I corrected. "My father left me this shop, but he also left the debt. The equipment is old. The clients are cheap. And there is a developer... a man named Vila... who wants to buy the building."

Max frowned. "Vila?"

"He sends people," I said, lowering my voice. "Like Mateo."

"The dancer?"

"Mateo works for him. He tries to get me to sell. He says, 'Sofi, take the money, be free.' But if I sell, they tear this down. They build a parking lot for your hotel."

Max went still. "I didn't know."

"We are all frauds, Max," I whispered. "We are all just trying to survive the month."

He reached out. He covered my hand with his. His palm was warm, solid.

"You aren't drowning alone," he said.

For a moment, the noise of the street faded. It was just us, the smell of street food, and the terrifying realization that we understood each other perfectly.

Then, my phone buzzed with a weather alert.

I looked at the screen. "Ay, coño."

Max looked at his phone. He had the same alert.

"The storm," he said.

"It turned," I said, standing up, panic rising in my throat. "It wasn't supposed to hit us. It was going north."

"Six hours," Max said, his architect brain kicking in. "Are you ready? Do you have shutters?"

"The shutters stick," I said, grabbing my keys. "And the roof leaks. And I have ten thousand pesos of paper stock sitting on the floor."

Max stood up. He crumpled the foil wrapper.

"Let's go," he said.

"Go where?"

"To the hardware store," he said. "We need plywood. We need tape. We need sandbags. We need to fortify."

"Max, you have to go back to the hotel. Your wife..."

"My wife is in a fortress," he said grimly. "You are in a glass box. I'm helping you."