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She’s been asking you ‘casual questions’ for over a week now. It’s funny; after spending each and every moment together for more than a year, on top of what felt like centuries in prison, she still thinks her nonchalant act can fool you. That you wouldn’t notice. Puta rubía.
You had the urge to call her out a few times but decided against it. After all, it’s so fun to watch her squirm.
It started with something completely innocent. You were smoking on the caravan, looking at the sky, living in your own, beautiful world, when you heard her quiet voice behind you:
“If you could only eat one cake for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
“Que?”
You turned around to look at her, confusion evident on your face. She just shrugged and sat down in her usual spot.
“I realised I miss cake for the first time in a while. Just thought I’d ask.”
“I’m not really a cake person, rubía.”
“Hm,” she nods, “pie?”
“Are you turning into a housewife?”
You grin and she lets out a laugh - head back, blonde curls wild in the wind; free.
“I might be.”
“Well then,” you take another drag of your cigarette and turn your back to her, “make me something with chocolate.”
“God, I miss a good surprise party.”
“I hate surprises.”
“Hm. I see.”
You can hear the bolts turning in her brain.
“All surprises?”
“Joder, are you planning on throwing yourself at me naked while holding a birthday balloon or something?”
“No,” she sighs, “of course not.”
You’re not convinced.
“What do you think about having a tequila night next week?”
“I’m listening.”
“You. Me. Salty rims, sour limes and an obscene amount of Don Julio.”
“Macarena... now you’re talking.”
“Isn’t the smell of flowers just.. amazing?”
She’s high again. You sip on your whiskey.
“I guess.”
“I love it so much. I miss it. Imagine - a hundred roses. No, pink geraniums everywhere. Or gazania flowers.”
You scoff and shake your head before turning to her. She can’t stop thinking about it even when she’s off her face.
“What?” she smiles, hazel green shining brighter than the stars outside.
“Nada, rubía.”
“No, tell me!” she jumps up and walks towards you; slowly, hips swinging like a metronome.
You can’t seem to look away.
“It’s just you,” you shrug, “you’re being ridiculous, Maca.”
“I’m completely fine, thank you very much.”
She stops in front of you, eyes finding yours and travelling down to your lips. They linger, a bit too long, and you know what’s coming.
She sits on your lap, each leg on either side of yours.
“What’s your favourite?”
Your head is suddenly empty.
“My favourite what?”
“Flower. What’s your favourite flower, Zulema.”
You can barely let out a whisper before her mouth is on yours:
“Water Lily.”
“I’m out.”
“When will you be back?” she asks, worried.
“Don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week. I don’t plan these things.”
She looks almost disappointed.
“I need my alone time, you know this.”
“Right. Well...” she sighs and you feel... something in your chest. Guilt? That can’t be it.
“Try and get back here by Thursday. If you can, of course. I know you tend to get preoccupied.”
“No promises.”
She nods.
“Have fun.”
The caravan door shuts in her wake and it slowly sinks in that you’ll come back when she asked you to. Because it’s her.
You stand outside the caravan.
It's late; dark. Almost-not-Thursday anymore but still. You're back when she wanted you to be. You tell yourself that much.
You've been stood here for a solid twenty minutes, contemplating your life and what you should expect coming in. And yet you can't seem to make yourself do it.
All her stupid questions have been kind of... nice. She tried to be subtle and failed, miserably, but it taught you one very important lesson: she cares. Macarena Ferreiro, la puta rubía, an absolute pain in your ass and someone who drives you mad. In the best and worst ways possible. She actually, genuinely cares about you. Wants to make you happy, or tries to.
Fuck. What are you supposed to do now?
You live here. You know her. You’re fine.
You need to get a grip.
Finally walking up the two steps to the door, you listen, careful not to make any noise. There’s soft humming and a slow beat coming from the other side and you can feel your heart pounding in your rib cage. Begging you to set her free.
Shush.
Three, two, one. Hand on handle, grip, twist down, open. You’re in.
She is nowhere to be seen.
“Maca?”
You eye the small space, looking to spot something out of the ordinary, but you can’t find anything. The fridge, maybe? You open it to find sliced limes and tequila - opened and a double shot lighter. She delivered that suggestion after all.
The bathroom door opens behind you, and you turn around to find... that.
Your jaw drops but you collect it off the floor immediately. You won’t look startled in front of her.
Maca stands in the doorframe, her eyes dark and hungry. Angry, too, perhaps. You don’t apologise.
Your eyes drift to the blood-red lace she’s wearing and nothing but. You’ve never seen this set before; it’s new. She bought it for this. For you.
She looks incredible and you are suddenly starving.
Skin soft and shimmering in the dozens of fairy lights surrounding her, she takes an uncertain step forward, and another one, walking until she’s right in front of you, eyes glued to your gaze, lips so close to yours you can almost taste her.
“What’s this?” you manage.
“I’ve been waiting for you. There’s tequila.”
She grabs you by the neck and bites your lip before kissing you, hard. Tongue demanding entrance, you allow it, meeting her halfway. She tastes of salt and alcohol, and something uniquely her. You wonder if anyone else would be able to taste it.
It should be yours.
She pulls back and smiles at you, still stunned. Whatever you expected - it wasn’t this.
“Happy birthday,” she says and nods at herself, “I will make sure it’s one to remember.”
“Rubía-”
“You need a drink. I’ll grab the tequila and lime, I also made a small chocolate cake for later if you want that-..”
“It’s not my birthday.”
She freezes, bottle in hand. The look on her face is one for the books and you can feel her trying to cover herself up with the cloak of invisibility she’s suddenly conjured up in her mind. The woman is mortified.
“But- I thought, I-.. joder, I never would have-..”
You laugh out loud and grab her by the waist, quickly pulling her closer.
“I’m joking,” you whisper in her ear and she tries to punch your shoulder in response before you bite her lobe and all that escapes her mouth is a breathy moan, “I was definitely born today.”
“Puta.”
“I like the dedication though. Do I get my flowers with this, too?”
She blushes as you leave a trail of kisses down her neck and sighs, embarrassed:
“There’s water lilies outside. I heard they look nice in the moonlight.”
Your heart skips a beat. Your fingers slip past lace in response.
“Let’s fuck and go outside, then.”
You kiss her again, softly, and she melts into you. You feel yourself melting, too.
She got your favourite fucking flowers.
You never cared about this day. But she does. And that’s all you need.
“Happy birthday, Zulema.”
You think it just might be.