5
“One version of it.” Ramiro could feel the bitterness in his voice, but it was hard to feel it when he looked at her. She wore the simplest of clothes, a voluminous red skirt in her grandmother’s village’s pattern that she made beautiful rather than mundane. Her white blouse, its collar and sleeves embroidered with tiny red roses, hung loosely over her generous figure until it gathered in the skirt at her trim waist. Her long dark hair framed a face so lovely that Prieto might have painted it, if Estela hadn’t so brought so much life to it herself.
Her eyes seemed a little wider than usual, as if she’d just been running and was surprised to find herself breathless.
“Feed me your food, Ramiro. Show me what it is you do.”
In a dream, he pulled aside a seat for her and held it out.
She
