Capicú

I was spying. I admit it.

It was Friday night. Max had survived five days in Apartment 4B. I hadn't received a single text complaining about the heat, the noise, or the lack of hot water.

He was bluffing. He had to be.

I closed the shop early and walked past El Colmado de Don Ramón—the one near his apartment, not the touristy one on the Malecón. This was the neighborhood spot. The sanctuary of the viejos. It was where old men played dominos with the intensity of grandmasters, salsa blasted from blown-out speakers, and plastic tables took over the sidewalk.

And there he was.

Max was sitting at a folding table with Don Hector (the neighborhood gossip and domino shark) and two other bus drivers.

He wasn't wearing the stiff linen suit anymore. He was wearing a guayabera—a white one I suspected Doña Carmen had ironed for him—and he was holding a Presidente.

But he wasn't sitting stiffly. He was leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed at the tiles.

The game was tense. Don Hector slapped a double-six onto the table with a crack that echoed down the street.

"Block that, Gringo," Hector taunted, blowing cigar smoke into the air.

Max didn't flinch. He didn't check his watch. He studied the board.

Then, a slow grin spread across his face. It wasn't his polite boardroom smile. It was a tigre smile.

He lifted his hand high in the air.

"¡CAPICÚ!" Max shouted.

He slammed his tile down—a double-blank. It hit the plastic table with such force the beer bottles jumped.

The table erupted.

"¡Ay, coño!" Don Hector threw his hands up in disgust, knocking his cigar onto the ground. "The gringo counts cards! I swear it!"

"It's not cards, Hector," Max laughed, a big, belly laugh that I had never heard before. "It's math. You played the six too early."

He high-fived the bus driver next to him. He looked sweaty, relaxed, and completely at home.

A vendor walked by pushing a cart of coco de agua (fresh coconuts). Max waved him down.

"Oye, primo," Max called out in decent Spanish. "Four coconuts. One for me, and one for Don Hector. He needs hydration after that beating."

Don Hector chuckled, slapping Max on the arm hard enough to leave a bruise. "You are a sinvergüenza (shameless rascal), Max. But you pay, so I drink."

I stood in the shadows of the awning across the street, stunned.

He wasn't just surviving the bet. He was winning it. He hadn't just rented an apartment; he had charmed the toughest critics in the neighborhood.

He looked up then, as if he felt eyes on him.

He scanned the street. His gaze landed on the shadows where I was standing.

He didn't wave. He didn't call out my name.

He just raised his beer bottle in a silent toast. His eyes were bright, challenging.

I’m still here, Sofía, his look said. And I’m winning.

I felt a flush rise in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat.

I turned and walked away before he could see me smile.