You Are Really Sick, Baby

The phone rang twice before she picked up, her voice cracking like an old cassette tape left in the sun. “Hola,” she rasped, and I could already imagine her rolling her eyes at how terrible she sounded.

“You are really sick, baby,” I teased, a grin tugging at my lips. “But hey, at least now you finally sound like the girl from those sexy Spanish hotline ads.”

“Shut up,” she shot back, her voice too scratchy to sound threatening. “This is not the time for your terrible jokes.”

“No? I mean, I’m just saying, your ‘sick voice’ might have a side hustle potential. If I call again and you say, ‘Dime, papi,’ I might be in trouble.”

Her laugh came out as a mix between a cough and a giggle, which only made me laugh harder. “Don’t make me laugh, idiot. It hurts.”

“Sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “But seriously, what are you doing for it? Tea? Medicine? Or just hoping reggaeton lyrics will cure you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, the biggest lie since ‘one drink and I’ll be home early.’ “But if you’re so worried, maybe you should fly over and nurse me back to health.”

“Oh, I’d nurse you, alright,” I shot back, my voice dipping low. “But I’d probably make you worse before you got better.”

Her laugh turned into a full cough, and I winced. “Stop it,” she croaked, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

“You should rest,” I said, feeling the miles between us settle heavy in my chest.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will,” she murmured, softer now. And in the silence that followed, I could feel it—the pull of her, even from a world away.