I could hear my heartbeat when he was close to me. I was 8. A Sunday, warm. We went to Mr. Parker's house. My grandmother's boss. He was from Texas, she said. A big place, far off. Didn't know much about it. Only the name. Texas. He worked for La Creole. The oil company. My grandmother, self-taught in English, had worked her way up to this. Proud.●●We found him in the back. He was working on a boat. A wooden boat. He called us over, us kids. The boat wasn't finished. Pieces of wood, scattered. He wasn't wearing much. A sleeveless shirt. Arms bare, skin pale. Pink in places, burnt from the sun. His hair, blonde, messy. He looked at me. "Marlon, look at this." His voice, low. He showed me the wood, how he was fitting it together. I nodded, but I wasn't watching the wood. I watched him. His arms, his hands. The way his skin looked, almost glowing in the sun. The way he spoke. English. Not just words, but something else. I didn't understand. Couldn't. But I listened. It was like hearing something far off. A place I didn't know.●●He switched to Spanish. Slow, deliberate, the words thick with his "gringo" accent. Clumsy, but sweet. He tried. It made me smile. Made me feel something, though I didn't know what. There was a rhythm in the air. Something I couldn't name. Not then. I just stood there, listening. The heat of the Venezuelan sun, his voice, the way he looked at me. Like I was the only one there.●●Goosebumps rose on my arms, even though it was warm. He smiled. I remember that. And the sound of his voice. And something else, something like seeing a shadow before it arrives. Like knowing what's coming, even if you don't have the words for it yet. It was all there, in his voice, in the way he spoke. I couldn't see the boat. Couldn't see anything else. Just him. The way his arms moved, the way his skin flushed under the sun. The words didn't matter. I didn't understand it all, but I didn't need to. It stayed with me.●
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