Hombreamor pedaled on, whistling.
Mateo watched from the doorframe of the muffler shop, then turned to spit on the sidewalk. “El hombre esta loco,” he muttered as he turned back in.
Filipe looked up and caught sight of the flower seller as he vanished into the crowd. “People say that, it is true,” he said. “Why do you say it?”
Mateo’s mouth turned bitter. He tipped his head at the street. “A boy was murdered out there—just yesterday. Left in a pool of blood. And yet that man is smiling. Always smiling.”
Filipe nodded. It was said the boy picked the wrong pocket to pick. But it did not take much in Los Martires, where men were murdered, women raped, and children vanished. Such was life here. “Sufrimos. Es verdad.”
“So you agree then, the man is crazy.”
“No, my friend. He smiles, because even here—there is love.”