After the knives of Mexico–the incident in our alley–my love of thirty-some years, a resourceful and practical person, hired a bodyguard. His name is Luis. He is thirty-five or forty, not tall, but also not short. His biceps are not quite the dimension of my thigh muscles. He is low key and handsome. Our mason hires him, and our mason recommended him, when my love jokingly suggested she needed a bodyguard.
My love attends the symphony on Friday nights. I am a person who cannot sit still for two hours. So I don’t attend. My love, again jokingly, asked Luis not to bring a gun. He replied–quite seriously–that, no, he would not bring it. He also said he welcomed the work since it constituted experience for the career he wished to pursue: private security.
The first Friday, Luis met my love at the assigned spot, where there’s a lovely fountain and where a lot of people gather. Then he walked her home. She paid him the modest fee they agreed on. As they said good night, he asked if he could bring along his eleven-year old son next time. My love said of course.
The next Friday, with his eleven-year old son, Luis preformed the same duty, delivering my love to the garden gate. She paid him, and he asked if his nine-year old daughter could come along next time. My love said of course.
I don’t think his nine-year old daughter has come along yet. Still, as we get older, I can see Luis guiding us through the old colonial streets at night, perhaps with his whole family–whom we then invite in for something warm to drink, cookies and hot chocolate. Some years away, we watch both kids graduate from La Prepa-high school. Maybe then, a wedding or two. And always, safe.