Page 76 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Relief washes over me. I remember this place from my childhood. Glass-walled, blissfully cold, and most importantly… vacant. The rich don’t come to Mexico to look at birds unless those birds are made of gold or willing to carry a tray of cocktails.
I round the corner ascending the small incline to the observatory—and stop.
She’s here.
Behind the pristine wraparound glass, Petra sits.
Perched cross-legged on a sleek bench, dressed like she’s heading into a corporate takeover, not a jungle trek. A pastel-blue Chanel skirt rides high on her thighs, paired with a boxy tweed jacket. Those damn sleeves hide the tattoos my tongue can’t stop fantasizing about.
I’m halfway to the door when I notice her holding binoculars—not aimed at the tropical birds fluttering through the canopy, but down at the trail below.
Curiosity flares. I follow her line of sight.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Echo.
Today’s outfit is a paisley fever dream. His pants are so wide and flowy, I genuinely can’t tell if he’s wearing two colorful hammocks tied at the waist. A mesh tank top clings to his wiry frame like cobwebs revealing nipple piercings that nobody asked to see. Beaded necklaces jangle as he moves, and topping it off? A goddamn beanie.
And sweet mother of—is he licking a tree?
Not a symbolic lick. No. This man is giving bark a full-on, open-mouthed, tongue-on-the-grain lick.
And now he’s… ugh.
He’sgrindingon it.
Sweet hell, he’s giving the tree a lap dance.
“My artistic loins ignite with your ancient vibrations!” he proclaims.
What does Petra see in this cliché performance art disaster? The thought sends an uncomfortable jolt through my system.Is this her type?Theatrical, boundaryless, and clinically delusional?
He throws his head back and releases a howl that resembles a wounded coyote mating with a kazoo.
What a tool.
That’s the thing about the one percent. They don’twantto be told what’s good. They prefer to hear about what’s expensive. What’sscarce. What’scoveted. So they can scramble after it, bid on it, then flaunt that they got it first.
Echo. What a name.Who dreams up a pompous jackass name like that anyway? I bet his driver’s license says “Brandon” or “Kyle.”
I dab my forehead with my pocket square, which is pulling double duty as a sponge.
He suddenly springs away, sketchbook in hand. “I hear you! I must follow her siren song into nature’s throbbing core!”
Petra doesn’t waste a second. She slips out the opposite door of the observatory, her Chanel-clad figure disappearing into the emerald maze with surprising speed for someone wearing four-inch heels.
Decision time.
I push through the entrance, and—holy merciful air conditioning. The climate-controlled sanctuary envelops me in its refrigerated embrace. Goosebumps erupt across my overheated skin as the sweat cools on my body.
But Petra is getting away.
With physical pain, I burst through the far door, plunging back into nature’s sauna. The humidity hits like a wet mattress to the face.
The path slopes downward, narrowing between towering ferns and hanging vines. I catch glimpses of Petra’s blue outfit ahead.
“Unleash your root chakra! Let the trees enter your spirit hole!”
