The Wall of Winnipeg and Me

by Mariana Zapata

The big guy didn’t even take in anything other than my face. “You always look fine. Come on.”

“If it makes you happy, it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Do you think I suck?” he asked me, seriously, in a voice low enough for only me to hear. I snorted, about to open my mouth and say something really smart-ass, but his thumb dug deep, the pressure making me groan out a hoarse noise of holy shit, do it again. But somehow I managed to say, “No,” instead. “Then why would I care what someone else thinks?” he murmured, steady and confident.

“Touch my wife again and I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body.”

“I’ve let you down too many times. I won’t do it again.”

“I’m starting to understand that you can always make time for the things that matter.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about me not wanting you somewhere. Got it?”

“No,” the familiar, deep voice answered unexpectedly, right before he dropped a metal chair into place right next to me. “She’s mine.”

“That’s my girl. That’s my fucking girl.”