I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but the uptick in limpias de huevo after I had accidentally left the photo of a semi-nude male model up on the family computer sat with me like a intervention. “Calvin klein underwear model” was the Google search that had betrayed me while I was in the bathroom jerking off. When I returned, he was still there, thumbs hooked under his waistband, his body propped up against an assemblage of lumber. I was hard in my Hanes. The plate of plátano rebanado delivered by her liver-spotted hands let me know that she had been there in my absence. She had seen.
I stared straight ahead, squeal-murmuring like the last air leaving a balloon as she ran the cold egg across my limbs. She paid special attention to my neck, gently carving switchbacks into the back of my skull, haunting my ears with her incantation. If I had been the only grandson, they would have taken me to see Father Alejandro with so much at stake. The egg was a mercy. Goosebumps stayed with me after she left, taking with her my vibras malas and the willpower I needed to defeat Gnasty Gnorc.
