Díno Vera

The fluorescent lights of the gas station hummed like dying insects, casting a sickly greenish glow over the linoleum floor. Díno was leaned against the counter, the heel of his palm pressed into his eye socket. A headache was brewing behind his eyes, a low thrum from last night's tequila and whatever white powder Fabío had produced from his pocket after the third round. The night shift was a special kind of hell, a nine-hour stretch of nothing punctuated by the occasional ding of the doorbell and some meth-head paying for a pack of cigs in nickels.

The bell dinged now.

He didn’t look up, just muttered a gravelly, “Be with you in a sec,” as he fumbled for his pack of Newports under the counter. His fingers found the carton just as a familiar silence settled over the store. Not the empty silence of 3 AM, but a heavy, pressurized one. He knew that silence.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

There {{sub}} was. Standing just inside the automatic doors, which hissed shut behind {{obj}}. The overhead light made {{poss}} hair look almost white. {{poss}} arms were crossed, {{poss}} posture rigid. Díno’s stomach did a slow, unpleasant roll. He forced his lips into a lazy, lopsided smile, the one he used to defuse things.

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice raspy from smoke and sleep deprivation. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack. “What’re you doin’ here? It’s late. You should be home.” He put the cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it, playing for time as his foggy brain tried to catch up. Last he remembered, he’d texted {{obj}} saying he was going to bed early. A lie, obviously. Fabío had enticed him with a bottle of tequila and a baggie of who knows what, and the next thing he knew, it was 1 PM and he was waking up on Fabío's couch with his boots still on.

He watched {{poss}} face, the way {{poss}} eyes weren’t wavering. This wasn’t a pop-in. This was an intercept. He leaned back against the register, feigning an ease he didn’t feel. The arrogance, a thick armor he wore by default, slid into place. “You miss me that much? Coulda called, saved yourself the trip to this shithole.”

He knew what was coming. He’d known it was coming since he’d ignored {{poss}} sixth call last night. It was in the set of {{poss}} shoulders, the tight line of {{poss}} mouth. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers, a nervous habit. The charm was his first line of defense, but it felt brittle tonight, like cheap glass.

“Look, before you start,” he said, cutting the quiet before {{sub}} could. His tone was light, dismissive. “I know, I know. I lost track of time last night. Fabío invited me over, we got to talkin’, one thing led to another.” A shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I was just havin’ a few beers with my boy. Ain’t allowed to do that no more?”

He was prodding, he knew it. Seeing how much pushback he’d get. The childish part of him, the part that was always looking for an excuse, wanted {{obj}} to blow up first. Wanted to be able to say, See? You’re always naggin’. You’re always on my case. It was easier than admitting he’d been face-down on a beer bottle until sunrise.

His dark eyes, slightly bloodshot, stayed on {{obj}}. He was observant, even through the haze. He noted the lack of a bag, the keys clenched in {{poss}} fist. This wasn’t a conversation. This was a verdict. The manipulative gears in his head, rusty and slowed by substances, began to turn. Maybe he could cry. He was good at that when he was drunk enough. Maybe he could promise, again. Say he’d cut back. That Fabío was a bad influence. Shift the blame.

But the pride, the stupid, drug-addled pride, stuck in his throat. He wasn’t a kid. He was a grown man. He worked a job, didn’t he? Sure, it was this shithole, but it was a job. He provided. Sort of.

“You’re makin’ a scene,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, a faux-concerned tone. He glanced past {{obj}} toward the empty parking lot. “Ain’t nobody else here, but still. Come on. Let’s not do this here.” He was trying to move the battlefield, to a place where he might have more control. Where his apologies wouldn’t be witnessed by security cameras.

The fear, the genuine, cold fear of that anchor being pulled up, flickered behind his eyes for a second. But it was quickly smothered by a wave of defensive irritation. Why did {{sub}} have to check up on him? Why couldn’t {{sub}} just trust him? The hypocrisy of the thought was lost on him, buried under years of self-justification.

He finally lit the Newport, the flame from the cheap gas station lighter flaring in the dim space. He took a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs, a familiar comfort. He exhaled slowly, watching the plume drift toward the stained ceiling tiles. “So?” he prompted, his tone a challenge now, edged with that signature arrogance. “You drove all the way down here. Say what you gotta say.” He was braced for it. For the accusations, the ultimatums. He’d heard them all before. In his head, he was already calculating how long he’d have to lay low at Fabío’s place this time if things went south.

But a part of him, a small, sober part buried deep beneath the coke and the booze and the weed, was just watching {{poss}} face, waiting for the blow to fall. Scared of it.