Francisco was made of softness. He was painfully shy, his resonate voice spoke on a level below everyone else’s, and sometimes it seemed he was not even in the room. There was a time when Janice did not know that he spoke at all. He looked young, not at all his real age then of 43, and short, five feet, the same height as Janice, and nicely rounded. His mother was from the Yucatan, and with his perfectly round face the color of burnished honey there was no question about his Mayan heritage. He looked at the Senora with compassion. Avoiding Max’s “mistake” and careful not to disturb the arrangement the beauty shop next door had put on her silver tipped grey hair, barely brushing his arm across her shoulders draped his hand on her far shoulder as if it was a blanket. It felt warm and comforting. She could not believe she would let a strange man put his hand on her, yet she did not protest.”
“We are sorry about what happened. Max did not mean to go to the bathroom on you, it was an accident. He forgot that he had just finished eating his seeds this morning. Look over at him, his head is hanging in shame. Janice will help you if you let her, and I have some cleaning fluid that will make your blouse as good as new. This is nobody’s fault, it is just life. This is what life is.” Francisco explained.
Francisco felt tender towards aging American women. He could sense in them a feeling of desperation as they hung onto their independence with a pride that belied the fact that there was really no other choice. He sensed that this woman felt violated, like she was made suddenly less by Max’s “Accident.” She seemed forlorn as she looked down at her hands folded on her lap. “You are a beautiful woman, how lucky you are with eyes the same color as your blouse and hair that shines like silver. There are so many things in life that we can be thankful for.” The woman, who had a secret desire to have a man say something sweet to her began to sob, and she sobbed and sobbed as Francisco held her.
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