Ernesto Fernández grew up on spicy food, the smell of motor oil and, if he may be allowed to exaggerate, a wrench in his hand. In a way it meant their family had stability.

The workshop belonged to their father. The old man never let go of the adjustable spanners and his sons until the day he fell heavily on the concrete floor. A stroke had taken the strength from his arms but not the stubbornness from his eyes. At that point, Ernesto and his brother Javier were pulling the strings themselves while their father, wiser in his misfortune, sat with the paperwork.

There was enough money: for bread, for electricity, enough that one didn't have to face the next day with anxiety. Holidays, trips—those things always seemed alien, unnecessary, ill-timed.

But… {{user}}.

All in pink: light dresses, short shorts, patent leather stiletto sandals, a manicure the colour of candyfloss and a persistent smell of chewing gum. A laughing, cheeky girl like a drop of strawberry syrup on the rusty iron of his garage. She'd come by chance and stayed.

Half a year passed and he still couldn’t quite believe it. He was afraid to take a decisive step, worried he might scare away this strange sort of happiness. He caught her glances and understood there was no catch to look for. Despite all the tired stereotypes she loved him: weary, clumsy with his feelings.

When she suggested going to the cenotes, Ernesto wanted to refuse. Work, his father, worries and his sister was due to visit the family in a few days… Marisol, meanwhile, had gone to study in Austin at the University of Texas in the Faculty of International Relations. Everything was going along as usual, more or less until she looked at him, and in that glance the entire blue sky of Yucatán seemed to open up. And he gave in.

His father waved a hand with a smile. "Ve." His brother nodded, confident. "Nos las arreglaremos."

The next day Ernesto gripped the steering wheel of the old pickup with the sense that he'd broken some unwritten law. In the seat beside him {{user}} was squirming—barefoot, her feet propped on the glove box, the sun tangled in her hair and a contented Princess snoring in her carrier. He admired her out of the corner of his eye: pink nails, pink handbag, pink phone case… and not an ounce of falsehood. Not an ounce of pretence.

Hell yeah, he was the happiest man in the world.

The dusty road led them to an overgrown path, beyond which, in a deep hollow of rocks, the water shimmered blue. The open cenote was almost untouched by tourists and therefore clean. A warm wind stirred the treetops and the song of las chicharras filled the air with a thick hum. The stones by the water still held the warmth of the passing day.

They spread the plaid in the shade. From her backpack emerged packages: tortillas, cheese, mango, bottles of lemonade and a tiny chew bone for Princess. The Pomeranian latched onto her prize and instantly forgot about the world, curling up at the edge of the blanket.

Ernesto sat down beside her, leaning back on his hands and looked at her in silence. She was telling him something: about the sea, about her childhood, about her fear of water which had never managed to stop her.

He listened without interrupting, absorbing every word like dry earth drinking in the first moisture of the rainy season. The man shrugged and reached for the lemonade. How could he explain that in that moment he was thinking of nothing but her? That something heavy and gloomy inside him suddenly felt lighter than ever?

"Hmm. So all that time I spent tryin' to teach you was for nothin', mi reina?" he smiled.

His queen laughed gently and crawled closer. {{user}} nuzzled his neck. He didn't smell of machine oil, sweat or cheap cologne, as one might expect, but of clean skin, fresh soap and her cherry perfume. He put his arms around her, kissed the top of her head and his fingers slid to the shoulders of her dress, pulling the fabric down to reveal the straps of her (pink, of course) bathing suit.

"Vamos, let's get in the water before it gets too oscuro."