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Esteban

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Fighting back tears of frustration I somehow managed to land my plane in Mexico City. What had made me think this would work? I should have known that running away wouldn't change anything. Mere physical distance could never heal the hurt of this betrayal. At the end of the runway I finally broke down and rested my head on the steering wheel, “Why Esteban, why!?” I sobbed.

Someone tapped gently but insistently on the window. I quickly wiped my eyes and looked up at a familiar face. I rolled down the window.

“Everything all right there kid?” Bob inquired. He almost sounded concerned.

I nodded, not trusting my voice just yet and fumbled with my cigarettes. I heard the familiar sound of a wooden match striking, the only kind he ever used for his cigars. “That zippo of yours will ruin the flavor” he used to tell me. As he lit my cigarette our hands touched. The expression on his face was almost tender, but I could see that calculating gleam in his eye. He stepped back from the window.

“Meet me at the hotel, I’ll buy you a drink. I have a proposition for you.”

He turned and sauntered away, trench coat flapping in the breeze. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I could just go to the depot, pick up some crates and get the hell out of Mexico City. But I knew I wouldn't.