The Table contd.

(Part 2 of many)

With a few minutes to the hour, Hector remarks that Mars may actually pull off being late this time, and I hear a rattle as the latch on the fence is handled and Mars walks in, carrying a metal folding chair and a look of resigned disappointment. The first thing that strikes me about Mars is the skin; like obsidian it’s smooth and sharp, shimmering in the moonlight.  He wears a gray suit, black shirt and red tie. His hair is a meticulously shaped and maintained flattop. Mars and Hector greet each other with a hug and Hector motions me over to introduce me. Mars offers his hand and I am unprepared for how unsubstantial it is when I take it; barely solid like a lake starting to freeze over.  After awkwardly adjusting my grip, I know I’ve been shaking his hand entirely too long and my staring is bordering on offensive, but he is unfazed. A subtle nod snaps me back and I let go.

I am barely seated before we can hear the stumbling and bumbling of Aquino, climbing over fences, then climbing back out, half whispering and half yelling for Hector until Hector finally calls out telling him to walk through the gate that is already opened. Aquino is laughing as he comes in, camping chair slung over his shoulder.  His round features disguise the form of an athlete. The grey tone the darkness gives him only makes him look more like a nearly finished Greek sculpture. “You know my house is just where I left it last time…” Hector says. “You know very well that’s not the problem.” Aquino replies.

It is another five minutes before we hear the first dog, then another, some cats join in, and then the neighborhood is in an uproar as the people join in to yell at the animals. As soon as Damaris walks in the chorus stops and the people go back to their lives before the disruption. Whereas Mars and Aquino showed no affect toward me when they came in, Damaris fixes on me immediately. She stares at me far longer than I stared at Mars and embarrassment turns to offense turns to anxiety. Her body seems to disappear into her eyes and I begin to feel myself melting away when Hector intercedes, “Damaris this is Miguel. Miguel this is Damaris.” I wave robotically, she chuckles under her breath and continues around the table. While making her greetings Hector’s phone vibrates on the table.

Without being able to hear the other side of the conversation I know what Freya is saying, having gotten the preview from Hector. He doesn’t have time to put his phone down on the table before Wellington comes in right on cue. Wellington’s features are tough to pin down, mostly because they are impermanent; they sharpen or dull, fill or thin subtly but constantly.  He sees me or looks past me, either way he goes right to the question of Freya and we all look at the gate as Hector prepares his customary explanation. “I’m sorry Wellington, but Freya isn’t feeling well…” Hector says and Wellington turns to the gate too…