Sunday morning I woke with Tlacolula in my head. Marisol had mentioned it on the bus — the Sunday market, worth the trip, her home. The shared vans leave from the *segunda clase* lot. Thirty minutes, maybe forty. I could have gone.
I didn't go.
I am not sure that needs more explanation than that, but I will try. The day felt full before I added anything to it. The roof, the book Héctor handed me yesterday, the prospect of a morning that did not require a van or a ticket or the small punctual tyranny of someone else's schedule. I have been moving enough. Sunday could just be Sunday.
I walked to Brújula anyway because I am still looking and maybe Sundays are different. They are not different. The counter is still too low. I stood for six minutes with a flat white and a view of a man eating *chilaquiles* like he was conducting an orchestra. My lower back filed the same grievance. I left.
The zócalo was already assembled by the time I crossed it — families in their Sunday weight, balloon sellers, a man with a speaker selling *elotes* in a voice that could strip paint. I kept walking toward Mercado 20 de Noviembre because I was hungry and the morning had not yet turned mean.
Bought a *tamal* de mole amarillo from a woman near the entrance. Chicken, masa, a yellow mole that tasted like it had opinions. I ate it standing near the flower stalls while a man tuned a requinto and a kid worked a crowd with a box of *chicles* in a voice that had not broken yet. The kid did not try me. We have an understanding.
I walked the long aisle through the *pasillo de humo*. It was early enough that only two grills were running, but the smoke was already staging a coup. A man turned *tasajo* on the coals with a pair of tongs that looked older than me. I was not hungry enough yet to sit. I kept walking.
Back through the market, past the stalls selling *mole* paste in plastic bags, *chapulines* in baskets, *quesillo* in wheels, *chocolate* ground to order. I bought a small bag of mandarins from the same woman as last time. She nodded. I nodded. That is what neighborhood is starting to feel like — the same faces, no interview required.
Walked back to Héctor's and sat on the roof with three mandarins and the paperback. *Pedro Páramo*. I am fifty pages in now and the town is definitely dead, or the man is, or both, or neither. The Spanish is just hard enough that I have to read some sentences twice. I do not mind. The plastic chair faced the mountains. The radio downstairs was playing *rancheras*. I read until the sun made it impossible, then came back down and refilled the bottle.