Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.
I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.
We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.
Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice. He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.
Alas, I should have asked too.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers