Crocodile Tears by Mat Tinley

I am a handsome South American mailman, and I have seen my life in the movies. I see myself and I see Antonio Banderas, the passion and transcendent serenity and general manner one can associate with speakers of a Latin-based language. I have an inventory of free and meaningful sexual relationships in my memory. When I first saw Senora, I remembered Senora Myers and Senora Daniels. “Senora,” I said, “your garden is very beautiful.” I told her the meanings of her flowers and their arrangements, I concluded, “I believe a garden is a light into its gardener’s soul.” I could see then we understood each other. “It’s a nice day,” I said, “here is your mail.” Our progression over the months was formality. I told her a story about my mother, stories about my father the freedom fighter. I told her what preparations the make for monsoon season. It was then, after I recommended beeswax as a basic and universal sealant that our intentions were made open and our conversations ceased. “Senor,” she would say, “must never know about this.”

Ah, but Senor did know about this. A nice word for a tanned gringo, that’s me. I knew about this when I knew the portrait our lives had become. I could see this man, this South American, in all the colors of a lover and I could foresee what would happen as easily as orange from red and yellow. I’m being clever. She had such a bad way of looking bored, and she would only stop for an attempt at the same serious conversation. Useless, we knew. Still. I heard Purple Rain on the radio once, “do you hear this? Do you hear this?” She stared and I knew, she said “it’s like you don’t have any feelings. At all.”

“What?”

“You don’t have feelings.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t have emotions then.”

“That’s pretty much the same thing.” My best answer, now she needed the more thought out one. I struggled a little, “well, it’s not true.” Her face was still on, so I struggled some more. Then I gave up. “This song was making me happy and now you’re ruining it. So now I feel sad. There.”

“That’s it! That’s it, exactly. You like whatever this is,” “Purple Rain,” “you like whatever this is as much as you like anything else.”

“What does that mean?” I knew.

“Me. You like this as much as you like me.”

“You’re sure. Not more?” Better to smile, “are you going to say I never touch you anymore? Because I don’t think I can handle it.” Understand, she thinks I’m funny.

“You’re such a jerk. Such a jerk.”

“Me? Prince may never be on radio malaria again.”

I had expected better. I came into a fortune, like Charles Dickens’ characters would say. Or I robbed a bank. But I probably pulled off some brilliant heist and went on the run, all I had to do was wear some sunglasses. This was what it was supposed to amount to, an old Victorian house, old Victorian furniture, the weather coming in. There would be different shades of moss and we would like it. I wanted solitude and cicadas and to see everyone in a thin layer of sweat. Emma was another, my accessory to nostalgia and my muse to what can only be inspired by a certain type of beauty. Hers was unique, catlike. But I didn’t need this shit.

Then there was this South American, the one that was supposed to change our moods. I hoped she didn’t want me to kill him, but her looks were better than a voice telling me, when she could sense I was suspicious, loudening when she thought I knew. Our conversations went away, the bad way of looking bored went away, swept under in waves of pride, bitterness and sadness. She was never sure.

What she wanted, to prove my love. Someone else might have made me take out the trash or buy a diamond. In a way this was better, more straightforward. But not easier. Before I went to town I almost kissed her on the forehead, “I’m going to town.” She was on the chaise lounge next to an open window looking at a macaw on the branch next to it, “they never come this close,” “I know, beautiful,” “it won’t stay long.”

The town was all dirt roads and chaos, casual. Half-dressed children and chickens running around. I made sure to buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I picked a spot next to a fruit stand and waited, when he walked past a put a pistol to his back. It was an old World War II pistol. I liked the way it looked. I said, “walk,” and he did. He knew who I was, “Senor,” he said. I stopped him, “you won’t have to dig your own grave, don’t worry.” “Senor, where are we going?” “To a pond. It’s not far.” It was but it seemed like the right thing to say. It felt better than the truth when my dad would say it. He was calm. He was silent. I could tell he was trying to enjoy the weather. I could tell he understood, his culture values honor you see. He only asked what would happen to the mail. I assured him, “I’ll take care of it.”

When we got to the pond I saw it was full of crocodiles like I hoped. “Senor,” he said, he was trying to sound calm, “are you going to have them eat me?” It was time to be straightforward. “Yes.” “Please use your pistol Senor.” “What about the crime lab?” “I am confused, Senor.” “The crime lab could trace it back to me.” “There is no crime lab.” “Do you want a cigarette?” “No. I don’t smoke.” I was surprised. He looked tired. “They’re caimans, Senor,” he closed his eyes. I shot him in the head and left him on the bank. I was better for him to be eaten this way.

She was in the parlor painting. She had one part she wanted to finish. She was painting the macaw, “I can’t remember, I can’t get the colors right.” Then, “where are we going?” “To a pond, it’s not far.” She didn’t ask why. Her look was gone when we came to the bank, when she saw the eyes in the water, “we should leave.” Then she saw one of his boots, made in Italian style. She said nothing, she was only crying. I didn’t need to tell her, “I wouldn’t have done that for Purple Rain.”