The Wall of Winnipeg and Me

by Mariana Zapata

Just as I opened the door, and before I could talk myself out of it, I mouthed, “I deserve better, asshole,” making sure he read my lips as I did it. Then I raised my middle finger up at him and waved goodbye with it. I hoped they both got syphilis.

The Wall of Winnipeg stared down at the much smaller man, and in a voice that was as close to a cool, unattached statement as possible, he said, “Touch my wife again and I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body.”

“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?”

“How do you not know that you mean the world to me? I haven’t made it clear enough?”

“You tell me. I never stop thinking about you. I worry about you all the time. Every beautiful thing I see reminds me of you. I can’t finish my practices in Colorado without wishing you were around,” he said in a steady tone. “You tell me what I feel.”