Now We Hope

I feel the cool aluminum under my fingers, and I press my entire body against the bars. The raw metal contrasts completely from just one hour ago when I held the warmth of his palm. I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t deserve to be here.

We’d always worked hard for every cent that came through our fingers, but it was hard to get jobs without identification. I had managed to get a position at L.A. Laundromat, and the scents of detergent and fabric softener eased my worried mind. He had a job as a waiter at a Mexican restaurant. There he got many crude remarks about the color of his skin, but the pay was good and no questions were asked.

It was easy to stay under the radar in the large city of Los Angeles, and we were certainly not alone. But it had been my fault. Just one slip up, talking to one of my regular clients. I don’t know why I had trusted her, going so far as to talk about my background and the family back in el Ciudad de Mexico. I had even told her of him.

And suddenly flashing blue and red lights flooded my vision. I could see his face in the back of the car, illuminated one moment, dark the next. Each time I could see his face another emotion was expressed. Sadness, then anger, then disappointment.

At first they wouldn’t let us ride in the same car. But I fought and cried, and finally was shoved into him. I had taken his warm hand in mine, a solitary squeeze reassured me. I stand back from the bars and sit on the lonely bench. I’m not sure what is going to happen next, but words float from the cell beside me, “Ahora esperamos.”