Agnes… part two…
Agnes isn’t afraid of narcotics. You used to tell yourself something about you frightened her – this romantic vision of love’s intimidation. The only thing she’s scared of is death. The fact you could never tell whether she’s high or not is just another inch on a twelve-mile pile of disappointment.
Agnes isn’t the type of girl to feel bad for herself. She knows she’s protected. She used to believe you understood that. She used to believe you… period.
Pedro hears the roar of an unfamiliar engine and rises from his black leather lounge to peer out half closed blinds and identify the sound. He knows about cars and could have been a Nascar driver. After his littler brother was killed on a racetrack, he vowed to never chase the glory on his own.
He started driving faster than ever.
Pedro once got Agnes from Manhattan to Burlington, Vermont in just under four hours. ‘We could’ve made it in less ma, Holmes on 87 needs to find the gas pedal man. You know, like, the one on the right. Ha!’
Pedro laughs out loud and shakes his head at the site of Agnes. He guzzles the rest of his guava juice and makes his way out to meet her.
People regularly piss in Pedro’s elevator. The once silver walls are a grimy shade of grey and he uses his apartment key to push the down button. He holds his breath during the three story ride because he’s convinced the toxic disinfectant saturating the lift is eating what’s left of his lung tissue.
‘Just something else goin down to clean out the ghettos, man,’ he once said to Agnes.
Pedro is a slight hypochondriac. As he approaches Agnes she’s clearing her missed call list that includes eleven calls from you. She deletes the three voicemails you left without listening to any of them.
‘Hola chica bonita,’ says Pedro kissing Agnes’s cheek in greeting. ‘New whip?’
‘Feel like driving?’ she asks tossing the keys toward the blue sky above. They land in Pedro’s hand with a jangly clang.
‘Let’s go…’
