Another perfect day. Mid-seventies, some wind but clear and that fresh smell of the outdoors made it a rare treat for a bike ride on President's Day. We are all trying to get back in shape after the monsoon and before the next storm is suppose to hit some time next week. Caryl, myself and Christine, who's real name is Juan, but I have to many Juans now in my life and luckily Latins come with a litany of names to choose from.
Christian is a real nice guy. He plays soccer for a team called Nepali, although the players are all Hispanic. He doesn't smoke or drink, he doesn't swear or talk bad about people. Nothing at all like me.
He also cuts himself.
I didn't know it, someone two days ago asked him why he had all these cuts on his arms. Either I need my lenses checked or I'm just happy to look at the whole picture, but because his English is very basic, his friend told us he cuts himself. One of those people who need that to feel something.
He comes from a city about two hours from Mexico City in the mountains. He loves his mother very much, but I get the idea, he is not close to his father, a retired civil servant. The best pay he can make in his home town is thirty dollars a week. That's why he and his two brothers came here. He is not the brightest light bulb but what shines is very warm.
I look at him, still not seeing the scars on his arms and wonder, will he survive?
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