Page 57 of The Delivery

He grabs his backpack from the trunk, and I hear the telltale clanking of full cans of spray paint being jostled and banging. He’s already got the idea, I can tell from looking at him. His eyes are full of glitter, and his chest is panting. This man was born to create, and when he does, he’s in his element. I sit in the grass and cool my tongue down with some terrible chocolate and gummy things. Wouldn’t you just know it, most of the Mexican candy even has hot stuff in it. I finally figured it out. That’s how they do it. They train their kids young. Mozey takes a lollipop dipped in chili powder and pops it in his mouth. I lean back on my arms and decide that this is how I’ll always remember him: beanie on his head, barely holding back his hair, brow furrowed in concentration, sucker in his mouth. I thought he would paint the van or maybe Brisa being taken, but Mozey is painting flowers. He must have been inspired by Paradise. There is so much color that it’s making me dizzy. I take out another chili-dipped sucker, tentatively lick it and hold my breath as I stick it in my mouth. I can’t believe I didn’t buy water. I know in a few hours I’m going to regret eating this.

When he comes to the end, after a field full of warm colored flowers, he paints a tall and proud looking Mexican woman who can only be his mother. She has his Indian features, sharp brow and strong jaw, the same expression of intelligence and defiance that she passed onto her son. She is holding two giant, tropical orange-red flowers. In the center of one, is curled a small baby girl. In the center of the other, Mozey paints his own face. It takes him so few swipes of the can to create his own likeness to perfection, that I gawk with my jaw open, feeling like I’m watching some kind of magician. He signs his name in the corner and wipes the sweat from his brow. He finished a masterpiece before he finished his lollipop.

He pulls me to standing and I brush the dried grass from my butt.

“You are so talented, Mo,” I say, looking up at him in awe.

“Save it, Doc. I’m not going to paint you or kiss you.”

It’s funny how you can go from being overwhelmed with compassion and emotion in one second to angry frustration from one stupid sentence. From a little chain of words unleashed as a joke from the lips of the man that you are helplessly in love with.

I ball my fists and go to charge away from him. He grabs my arm and yanks me back forcefully, and his expression is pained.

“Were you talking to your wife?” I demand, sounding jealous and so, so immature, even to myself. I don’t want to be like this. I know better. We aren’t even having a relationship. I’m going to drop him off in Mexico.

“Don’t be mad, Lana. I was talking to my mom.”

“You’re in touch with her?” I asked surprised.

“It’s hard not to be when she’s always searching me down looking for money.”

“Oh, I thought you were estranged.” I say, jamming my hands in my pockets. “We should get driving,” I say vacantly but my face is now covered in tears.

“I shouldn’t have told you that story. It’s too much to hear. Thanks for this,” he says, motioning to the painting. “Helped get me out of my head.”

We walk a few steps and then Mozey stops again.

“Lana? I love it when you watch me paint.”

He’s so earnest, and he’s holding my fingers but gently pulling me toward him.

I sob out loud, and it sounds strange and foreign, like an animal dying or some strangled foghorn; a ship’s warning.

How can I get you out of my head? I shouldn’t be holding you. I shouldn’t be craving your touch with every single part of me.

“Want me to drive?” I ask, straightening my shoulders.

“You drive me crazy. I want to see you. Can you be your true self?” Mozey smashes me into a hug, and my body goes limp. He kneads the back of my neck and breathes in my scent. I can feel his heart beating against mine. I know that I frustrate him. I know that it’s sick to want to both fuck him and save him.

“Thanks for listening to the world’s saddest and most awkward story. Don’t let it affect you. Try not to get lost in it, it’s over—for the most part.”

“I know it is. But I can’t help but want to save that part of you. I want to go back in time and protect you from everything bad you ever had to go through.”

“Without those experiences, Lana, I wouldn’t be standing here in front of you. I was only messing with you before. I’ve been dying to kiss you. Watching your mouth while you sleep is the worst kind of torture.”

Mo walks me backward and presses me up against the wet paint. I can feel that it’s still wet from how my shirt and pants stick to it.

“Be careful. We’ll ruin it.”

“I’ll ruin you, if you let me.”

Do you think that from a kiss you might see the rest of your future? That a kiss can dissolve all the fears you’ve held onto your entire life? Or that it could assure you that no mistakes were made in solidifying your destiny? That now was meant to be now and everything will turn out fine?

No? Well, then you’ve never kissed Mozey. His sweet tongue has never slid between your lips and opened up your whole universe, flooding it with color and emotion. He’s never grabbed the back of your neck and pushed you harder into the wall, pressing the entire length of his body up along yours, letting you feel it all. All of the sorrow and the pain and the beauty and the desire, a rainstorm of emotion packaged tightly into

one

perfect

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