“Chocolate clams,” he said. “For when you want real ceviche.”
I made a face and waved another vendor away, wondering why no one was sticking slices of cheese and avocados under Damian’s nose.
“You are the worst person to shop with,” I said, as he slapped my hand away from the locally crafted bags and shoes. I lingered a few seconds to admire the intricate patterns hand-carved into the leather, before dashing after Damian.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
We were standing near the taco stands. I could smell fresh tortillas and wood smoke, roasted vegetables and grilled meat.
“We’re almost done.”
“But I’m hungry now.”
“You are the worst person to shop with,” he said.
I trailed him to a couple more stalls before staging a protest.
“For a seasoned shopper, you have a complete lack of focus and discipline.” He pulled me off the curb. “Then again, you’re used to air-conditioned malls and bubble tea breaks.”
“I hate bubble tea,” I said, as I followed him down a narrow cobblestoned pathway to a street cart.
“How about Papas Locas? Crazy potatoes?” he asked.
The vendor was roasting large potatoes in foil, mashing them with butter and fresh cheese, and serving them with an endless variety of condiments: grilled beef, pork, bacon, beans, onions, garlic, cilantro, salsa, and guacamole.
“Good?” asked Damian as I dug into the bulging spud.
“Heaven,” I replied.
“Want some of this?” He held out his burrito: chargrilled beef with cumin, garlic and lime juice.
“No thanks.” It looked delicious, but I wasn’t about to admit I wanted his burrito.
I was still smiling at my silly private joke when a loud wedding procession entered the alley: a tipsy bride and groom, followed by a group of giggly children, followed by an entire mariachi band, followed by family and friends. Damian and I pressed into opposite sides of the path to let them through. The trumpets blared in our ears, slightly off-pitch, attacking us with tight bursts of vibrato. My potato quaked in despair and a few green onions slid off. My gaze met Damian’s. Suddenly, we were kids again, and we were laughing as men with wide sombreros and twangy violins filed through between us.
He noticed them at the same time I did—the rows and rows of paper stuck to the walls on either side: pink and yellow flyers with our faces printed on them. I couldn’t make out what they said, but I’m pretty sure the captions read ‘Missing’ for me and ‘Wanted’ for him. It was sobering, seeing ourselves up on display, as the entire wedding procession rambled past us, two at a time. Our eyes remained locked as we held our breaths. The street was so narrow, that two lovers standing on balconies across from each other could have leaned over for a kiss. There was nowhere to run.
We stayed glued to the walls until the last of the wedding party had shuffled through and the guitars had turned into a distant strum.
“Come on.” Damian picked up the shopping bags at his feet.
We were making our way to the boat, through a maze of streets, when he stopped outside a walk-in medical clinic.
“I think you should get them to look at your finger,” he said.
“It’s fine.” I waved the splint at him. “There’s nothing they can do. Besides, don’t you think it’s a bit risky? If they’ve been watching the news they could put two and two together.”
“Not if you go in alone. Maybe we should split up.”
“And what? Make up a story about what happened?”
“Do what you have to, but get it checked out. Go. I’ll wait for you out here.”
“It’s fine.” I started walking away. “The last thing I need is for someone to go poking at it when it’s finally healing over.”
“Suit yourself.” Damian wouldn’t budge. “If you’re not going in, I will. I need to get my stitches removed.”