I’m on the bus listening to Stevie Wonder on my iPod. Gerardo’s patience is wearing thin. There’s a song that’s you. To block out Gerardo, I use all my might to visualize you. Why am I here, on a journey I don’t even want to be making? Where are you now? I’ve turned off my cellphone for fear that you’ll call while he’s here. He was annoyed when I showed up late, had even gone out of the bus station to see if I was coming so he could tell the driver that I was waiting for the light to cross the street. “I was ready to tell him to leave without you.”

It’s still raining. He’s taken my hand. “I don’t want us to argue on this trip.” I have to take off my headphones and make him repeat what he’s said, and that really bothers him, although I don’t mind letting him suffer for my sins: he wants to trust me. Later, I’m ashamed of my pettiness, but I keep telling myself that he asks for it. Plus his hand feels heavy. It’s weighing me down. I think about you, think that I’ve taken this journey out of cowardice, and the waves of rage wash over me again; I have to get free before his weight crushes me, shrug off his head resting on my shoulder. Brusquely, I push it away; I stand up and pretend to look for a book in my backpack.

There’s some consolation. He really does believe I’m trying to find something. He got wet standing in the drizzle, he’s shivering and looks so vulnerable and patient that I calm down. It’s just two days. Two days and it’ll be finished.