Ishmo, was grifo and sustado. Real gatcho. And he was the only one who knew why.
He was a well-known masote and mento, handsome face and athletic body and knew it. He was also a smooth talker, although he didn’t have to say much. He would just smile widely and drop a few compliments, and women would swoon over him.
He never had a steady girlfriend, but he was always in the company of a date. Even when he arrived at a dance or festival alone, all he had to do was smile and walk around like a human magnate for a date for the evening to step out of the crowd and stick to him.
His change being always grifo was sudden and enduring. He now always frowned, slumped and sniffled.
He would do the vuelta every Sunday like always, but drove around alone and never stopped, just went from one end of the vuelta to the other.
“Qué onda with Ishmo?” people asked each other.
“Pssst. Been hacina since Christmas.”
“Always de amadres aguitado.”
Simón. De amadres. Not mento anymore.”
“Must be sustado,” someone guessed.
“But who?” somebody else asked.
Nobody dared guess out loud.
Ishmo knew why. The scene that sent him crashing played over and over in his mind.
It started on unseasonably sunny and mild Sunday in early December. He arrived at a church fair smiling and feeling optimistic as usual. Before he walked to far into the crowd, a beautiful young woman came forward and stood in front of him. Having attracted his attention, she smiled suggestively at him and turned and walked away. Ishmo followed her. But she disappeared into the crowd.
Ishmo searched for her all afternoon and evening but couldn’t find her. Then when the sun went down and the air turned cold, he heard the woman call him.
Ishmo turned around. She’d been following him.
He smiled. She smiled back at him. He got close to her.
They looked at each other a long while without saying anything, Ishmo acting all mento thinking she’d soon fall under his spell.
“Y?” she asked after a while.
Ishmo wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“You got 10 seconds,” she said.
Ishmo felt as if he was frozen. This had never happened before. His charm had never failed him.
“8, 9, 10” she eventually said and turned and walked away.
Ishmo’s nose began to drain and his energy drained out of him.
Months later, he couldn’t remember her face anymore. He now doubted the encounter ever happened.
“Bad dream,” he told himself repeatedly.
“But I’m still grifo,” he kept contradicting himself.
