One or two steps—maybe three—into the rundown apartment Diego shared with his fiancé, he was greeted by the enthusiastic tap-dancing of their Boxer pup and an odiferous fireworks display shot directly into his nasal cavity. The combustible product of jalapenos, roasted corn and tomatoes, spices, and otherworldly elements flashed multi-colored displays across his taste-buds. Diego’s mouth frothed with latent afternoon hunger and anticipation. In that moment he wished only to sprout additional nostrils for further engagement.
“I don’t know what the hell that is, but it smells amazing, amor!” Diego kicked off his work boots and set down the truck keys in a spot he would inevitably be unable to locate in the morning.
“Thanks, corazón. It’s my abuelita’s enchiladas though. I told you I was planning on making them tonight. I’ve missed cooking. You’ve taken on so much since I’ve been back in school and wanted to do something nice for our Friday night together.”
“You know I don’t mind. I fully supported your decision to go back.”
To be fair, Carmelita’s decision to become a born-again collegiate had been demanding on both of them. Demanding on their time. Demanding on their sex life. Diego hadn’t so much as sniffed Carmelita’s glorious, coffee melones in months. The one aspect her scholarly journey never impacted was their bond—the intrinsic, magnetizing attraction that whispered Carmelita was Diego’s eternal. Such saccharine and irrefutable thoughts of the big “L” scared the shit out of him initially. He found the emotional pozole difficult to contain, serving up a steaming bowl of premature attachment in their fourth month together.
Miraculously she didn’t bolt. Miraculously she reciprocated.
Leaning against the formica-swaddled countertop of the kitchen-dining-living room, Diego absorbed the pore-opening citrus of Carmelita’s taught but voluptuous form. He thanked the Virgin of Guadalupe for allowing such a magnificent creature to love her wretched son.
“Y’know, we have a half hour or so until the enchiladas are done, D. I know you just got home, but…” Without finishing her thought Carmelita molted free of her apron, short-shorts and tank top. There was no bra to overcome which caused Diego’s blood and brain to beam instantaneously to his verga. She floated to him, working his joystick through field-crusted jeans, finding his lips with hers. Their tongues danced a playful folklórico. Their hands mapped familiar and exciting territories. They were two marineros setting a course for the tropics of fuck.
Alive and en fuego, Diego and Carmelita stumbled into the bedroom where she expertly peeled his boxer briefs and pants in one swoop. Considering the perspiration which had adhered his Hanes to his taint that was no small feat. There was no time for congratulations as his head was in her mouth before the jeans hit his ankles. Slowly, ever so slowly Carmelita varnished the hard wood, leaving shiny and moist layers behind with every bob. The world began to spin. Just as Diego lost control of his gelatinous body, the job ended.
The Ferris wheel jerked to a halt right at the top.
Tilting down he saw her, frozen, his juevos in one hand, her concha in the other, with a look of befuddlement or stroking out. Before Diego could interrogate Carmelita whimpered and fled to the one bathroom of their apartment, conveniently attached to the bedroom. He listened to wails and moans nearly inaudible to the human ear while his jeans deflated further toward his feet and his petrified igneous pito hummed with anticipation.
“I thought I washed my hands. I thought I washed them well.”
“Baby, que te paso? Are you ok?” Then his betrothed wailed the one word which echoed ruin throughout the remainder of their night.
Carmelita sat on the toilet wincing, shrieking, and nursing the lady bits torched while engaging in the naughty hand-jive. Bored by the lack of attention, Diego’s self-absorbed member went back to sleep. He checked several jalapeno-on-the-genitals remedies from a surprisingly bountiful Google search on his cell. In the middle of scrolling through an article that suggested a milk bath, a calendar alert commandeered his screen announcing that Carmelita’s new quarter started Monday.
The smoke alarm that followed announced dinner was now ruined. Diego hopped to the kitchen with his jean shackles around his ankles, realizing he had no clue where the extinguisher was hiding. He wondered if the new gallon of two percent would work on the flaming enchiladas as well. With two fires to battle and the bluest of cojones, Diego grabbed a beer and chuckled.
Alex Schumacher has toiled away in the relative obscurity of minimum-wage jobs and underground comics longer than he cares to admit. Currently he produces the weekly illustrated feature Decades of (in)Experience for Antix Press, the bi-weekly column Bread Crumbs from the Void for Five 2 One Magazine, and the monthly comic strip Mr. Butterchips for Drunk Monkeys. His comics and stories have been published by the likes of Arcana Studios, Viper Comics, Cultured Vultures, The Round-Up Writer’s ‘Zine, and Hobo Camp Review. visit him at alexachumacherart.com