The door struck the bell, interrupting the drone of the ceiling fan blades as they vainly tried to stir the heavy air in the shop. Thick, dark leather boots, reinforced and unapologetically buckled, announced the obvious: A customer!
Like a metronome, the steady beat of footsteps echoed through the shop, drawing closer to the counter. The monotonous symphony of the rocking chair's creak came to a halt — its rhythm broken by the stranger's presence.
Her bony frame quivered at every joint, a trembling that seemed to delight the gentleman.
"Yes?" croaked the elderly woman, her voice as dry as the Sahara. It had been an eternity since she last spoke, and the sound—so sudden, so foreign—froze the flies in midair. They hovered, legs twitching together with a slow, deliberate malice, as if settling in to witness something they had long awaited.
"I'm looking for María Dolores."
The old woman, struck by the familiarity of the man, reached with trembling hands for the glasses hanging from her neck—low, around the belly area, much like her deflated breasts. Avoiding an eye poke with the clumsiness of rusted joints, she finally perched them on her face and shifted the lenses around, trying to align her pupils with the warped glass.
"It's you," she said with difficulty. The oppressive summer heat had not only battered the lonely desert that surrounded this middle-of-nowhere gas station, but had also stripped every last drop of moisture from the woman's throat.
You might think she moved out of spite, dragging her feet and advancing at a speed that even a turtle might mock—but no, the man simply seemed to be in a hurry. He needed to see María Dolores, and soon. She was terribly late, and the interest rates grew with every passing second.
At long last, the woman crossed the threshold separating the store from their home. Well… almost. There was still a staircase, albeit a short one. Just five steps. But given the pace of the old woman, they might as well have been the thousand steps to some Shaolin temple on a far-off Chinese mountain.
The ceiling fan resumed its futile dominance over the shop's heavy air, though only partially—for the flies remained fixated on the man. "Isn't he hot?" they wondered, observing his thick black leather boots, tight denim jeans with rips at the knees offering the faintest relief, and a heavy jacket adorned with three spikes on each shoulder. The outfit might've made sense for a biker slicing through cold winds atop a metal panther—but outside, there was no motorcycle in sight. Had he walked here from the city? To this place?
While the flies buzzed with their frantic speculations, the man found himself alone at the counter. The wait dragged on, stretching time into something unbearable. He looked around the shop for anything to distract his eyes—no luck. Perhaps he could wander the aisles, browse the faded, expired goods… but he didn't care. He only wanted to find María Dolores, deliver the message his boss had entrusted him with, and leave.
Like most people, he hated his job.
And this one was worse than most.
He had been ready for bigger things—trained, even—for real responsibilities. The hard stuff. Yet here he was: errand boy for bad news. A job for rookies. But a mistake was a mistake, and someone had to pay the price. He knew that, even if the knowledge didn't ease the sting.
Then, a drop of sweat slid from his left temple, down his cheek, and finally splashed against the dusty marble tiles below. No, it wasn't the summer heat getting to him—he was long accustomed to hellish temperatures. The drop had fallen because he realized he wasn't as alone as he thought.
He was being watched.
Eyes—merciless, unforgiving—bore into him, silent but damning.
Why are you here?
How is this possible?
Speechless with shock, he tried to suppress the wave of anxiety and shame now clawing at his gut, coiling around his lungs. The silence of the place grew suffocating. He felt crushed, powerless beneath their gaze, stabbed again and again by the cold judgment of those eyes—eyes that offered no justification for their scorn.
He was afraid.
And who wouldn't be, trapped like this?
If he turned toward the counter, he risked provocation from those treacherous creatures. Yet standing there, absorbing their contempt, was its own special torture.
He bit his tongue—partly to ease the tension, partly to hold back the words burning in his chest. This was the kind of moment that made his job unbearable. He tried to flee into his memories, searching for anything that might calm him—but his mind offered no refuge. The weight of the air seemed to grow heavier, pressing on his chest. There would be no escape.
He wanted to surrender. To fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, offering blood-red tears as penance.
"WHY?!"
The cry echoed inside his skull.
"WHY?!"
"Hey!"
The crimson lips of María Dolores snapped him back to life with that single word.
"What's got you so terrified?"
He cleared his throat before replying.
"The saints on your wall."
"The saints?" she asked, puzzled. "Why?"
"Because I'm a demon."
He smiled, relieved—
—at the panic that flared in the eyes of María Dolores,
the sinner.
…