Electric Tacos (Wattys 2023)

THIRTY FIVE

Ricky woke up the next morning on his sofa in the basement, wearing nothing except his boxers. All of his clothes were on the floor, and Chico was sleeping on them.

The door knocked hard, and Ricky groaned.

"Enrique, despertarse, ahora." Pops yelled from the other side of the door. "Wake up now."

Ricky yawned. "What time is it?"

"Time you got up for Mass."

"Yeah, I got that, but what time?"

"You have half an hour to get your ass outta the room, and scrub up."

"Aight, I'm coming okay?" Ricky sighed. "Don't keep banging the door."

"I'll bang as much as I have to."

Chico woke up. "You're waking up your son, too. He's scared."

"Aight, hurry up. Please."

"Aight."

Ricky comforted Chico for a moment, and made him comfortable on the sofa, before he made his way up the stairs and into the shower. He let out a yawn as he turned the water on to wash away the memories of last night's performance.

He started to think about his conversation with Mateo, and how chill he was when Mateo admitted that he had a crush on him. And how he'd do anything for him.

And how much chemistry they had...

... And how much those pinche hormones were messing up their bodies.

Despite being able to rationalize that he might like guys as well as girls, he just couldn't bring himself to terms with the fact that it was becoming so close to home.

That Mateo wanted him, of all people, and not Tito anymore.

He was impressed with how quickly the ship sailed, and how Mateo managed to not get hurt, but he was confused as to why he wanted him.

He was a lousy lover, and he couldn't hold down a relationship. He was driven by lust and the desires of the moment. The more he held back, the more the desire grew and the angrier he got, with himself and time. He just wanted to release his urges, and not worry about things.

Not worry about having a kid, having to get a job, a house; being financially stable, having a scholarship, having a study schedule, and getting good grades.

He needed to escape for a moment.

He had his whole life ahead to achieve things and live.

He didn't need to do everything all at once like the people around him had said:

Screw society, and fuck normalcy, tradition is a trap.

He started to scrub his body with soap.

Harder, and harder each time he thought about something dirty; something from a music video, or that movie he saw about the two guys opening a laundrette, or those fitness magazines.

His mind started to race, as a conversation was beginning to form between the two sides of thoughts inside his brain. The thoughts were set in motion and began to talk to each other:

I can't think about those things in Mass. Afterward, you can go loco, Ricky.

But what about screwing the norm?

I can do that afterward–

–Or in the bathroom—

What?