Page 59 of The Delivery

“Do you even like me, Lana? Or are you just trying to make sure I’m okay? Because I can handle myself. If you’re just here to patronize me, then you can back the fuck up.”

Mozey moves to the balcony in anger and shoves back the door before stepping onto the cement a hundred feet above the street. He wouldn’t jump, would he? Is he even distressed?

I gulp down the rest of my wine and turn off the TV. Then I pull my wet hair into a haphazard bun. I lean back in the plush chair and close my eyes. I wake up with him standing over me. He looks stressed and angry when he grabs me under the arms and lifts me to standing.

His mouth is on mine within a spit second. His kiss is soft but his hands are holding me too tight. He’s pulls me into bed with him but doesn’t attempt to remove my clothes. He just holds his body to mine and I swear that he kisses me and gently caresses me all through the long night.

When I wake up in the morning, Mozey has his street map spread out all over the table. He’s marking things to see—or do. I can’t tell what he’s up to. I put the pre-fab coffee pack in the coffee maker and head to the bathroom. I shower quickly and pull on some jeans and tank top, throw my hair in a clip and put on some pink lipstick.

Mozey has two mugs of the coffee now laced with packets of dry creamer sitting in front of him.

“Sorry about arguing last night,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead and sliding the mug toward me.

“I’m sorry too. Just so you know, consider this a fair warning, I suck at everything.” I take a sip of the coffee and frown at Mozey. He laughs at me while holding the warm mug to his chest.

“What?” I say almost painfully.

He loses it and guffaws, then leaning over brings his hand to his chest.

“You run against the grain so hard. It’s really endearing.”

“Oh, I do. Says the rebel muralist, graffiti artist. Are you a Dibujero? Or are you not supposed to tell me?”

“Speaking of that, I’m planning a really important piece. I’ve already got it all mapped out, but I’m going to need your help on this and it could be kinda dangerous.”

“I’m in,” I say without even considering it. I’m already here with him, I might as well conspire with him. He so is a Dibujero; they must have a code of silence.

“I like your enthusiasm, Doc. We’re going to wear ski masks.”

“Oh shit! Seriously? Are we biting the president again?”

“No, we’re tackling police corruption and the missing forty-three students.”

“Fuck. I heard about that on the news. No shit, huh? What’s our plan for when you get yourself deported from both countries?”

He laughs again and smiles, shrugs his shoulders at me.

“I don’t know. Maybe Russia?”

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out two black sweater-cotton ski masks. I grab the ski mask and pull it over my face then take a sip of my coffee.

Mozey laughs again and then snaps a picture of me.

We have breakfast at Sanborns in the heart of the city. Mozey tells me that Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata breakfasted there when they were taking the city.

“But we’re just painting, right Mozey? Not doing anything too crazy?”

Mozey drinks more coffee, his eyes all a-sparkle.

“Revolutionaries come in all different packages these days, Lana. Trust me.”

“But I didn’t come here to make history. I was just going to try to help you reconnect with your family. By the way, have you made any headway or should I take over that project?”

I take a bite of eggs and tortilla chips bathed in red and green sauce. I could get used to eating like this. I already am. I suddenly really like the idea of a little Russian Mexican. I’m daydreaming about mine and Mozey’s features blended together. He’s texting on his phone and constantly checking his Instagram.

“Are you plugged in already? I mean to the street artists here?”

“Are you kidding? It would be stupid not to be. I’ve got to get the right coordinates so that we can be safe. I’ve got to make sure we’re connected for this piece to gain any momentum on the internet.”

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