don't wanna rush | oscar diaz

espina de rosa

"Tell me how you say it," Oscar says, and Claudia laughs. That might be more because of how the two of them are laid up in bed together, clothes tugged back on after an afternoon in Oscar's bed. He's got her half-heartedly pinned, not even on top of her, really, just his knee between hers and their fingers laced while he kisses her neck. "Tell me," he says, even as he kisses her again, the two of grinning all the while.

"Say what," she says when he pulls back. Her thumb rubs the back of his hand real softly, like she's not even thinking about it. "You been knowing we talk different."

"Yeah," he says, "teach me. I wanna know what you be saying to me."

"Dundo," she says, eyelashes fluttering when he leans in to kiss her eyebrow. He could do this all day—the two of them wrapped up in each other, Claudia safe in his arms. "Acting like you can't understand me."

"You sound funny."

She wrinkles her nose at him, and he presses his mouth there, too, grins at how it makes her roll her eyes and try not to smile. She lets go of one of his hands, brings it up to touch his face, her thumb tracing over his eyebrows, his mouth. She says, "I don't even know how you talk."

"Claudis," he says, "everyone talks like me. Who else uses vos around here?"

She sniffs. "Chilango's Salvadoran."

"He don't use it with nobody but you and his sister."

"Pues," she says, stretching the word out, and Oscar kisses her again. They distract themselves like that for another little while, Claudia pushing him onto his back at some point. When she pulls away from him she looks a little flustered; Oscar feels the same. "Whatchu wanna say?"

He almost says I love you. Bites his tongue instead. "I dunno. Anything."

"Hombre," she says, still in his lap and not looking like she's about to move, "work with me."

"Just tell me some of them."

"Choose a verb."

"Nena," he says. He remembers taking Spanish classes, before he dropped out. He was always good at it, even the grammar lessons. His English teachers were always impressed with his grades, but his Spanish instructors seemed surprised he knew where all the accents went, when to use ser and not estar. The only thing that really tripped him up was the subjunctive; doesn't matter how many times he and Claudia went over it together, he never had an explanation besides one sounding better than the other. His ma prefers Spanish, most of the time, anyway. Language is the only constant in his life, sometimes.

She raises her eyebrows, climbs off him afterwards. He's disappointed for a split-second before she stretches out alongside him, her knee over his hip and her head propped up on one fist so she can look down at him. She looks good, relaxed, in a tank-top since it's summer and no one can scold her about it in class. He's not sure why she's in jeans in this heat; he stays making fun of her for being cold all the time, and last time she said, Just put your arm around me, Diaz.

It's warm in the house, like always. No one around here has central air, and the most they've got going is two fans per room this time of year. The whir of them follows Oscar as he moves through the hallway; he's got his window cracked open in a desperate bid to get the air circulating, but that invites the noise from the neighborhood, too.

Claudia's still watching him, mouth quirked up like he amuses her.

"What?" he says.

"You ain't saying nothing," she says, and reaches out to touch his face again. She lets her hand rest, palm spread, over his heart. He covers it with his own.