Lips pursed on the animal’s hinge, fingers steady on wet shell. Angustia swallows the ostión in one slurp. A wave of saltwater, gills, and acid from that limonsito the seller sprayed over the oysters he collected—with hands of brine, with brackish skin—crashes into her. Angustia opens her eyes to the empty cavity she holds—a body missing a body—and beyond, the Pacific Ocean way past sunset, the Casablanca beach after the kids who built sandcastles have been beaconed back to their vacation houses and the canals they dug out with their tiny hands now overrun by squirming night worms.

How is it? Rosario asks. She lets the moonlight bask her uneaten bivalve. She has watched her girlfriends scarf down the tiny crustaceans and can’t bring herself to do the same. Rosario’s palm is open and steady, the giant ostión’s belly luminous.

In a quiet beach night like this one, when the women who offer to braid hair and massages have retired for the day and the men who sell sunglasses and pareos head home, all Angustia and her friends can hear is the silencio del mar, a hush that only exists here, between their tanned bodies still warm from the equatorial sun and the waves slowly sliding towards them, eating away at old ripple marks.

The silence of the sea, the slurping of oysters, and the questions Rosario asks all night. This is all Angustia can hear.

It’s good, fresquita, Angustia replies. She returns the shell to the seller’s slab. Sliced wee limes and their wrung-out pulp adorn the workstation where Angustia is pretty sure the vendor also beheads and deguts fish. The ice-cream-cart-turned-seafood-cart reeks a little of old mercury-laden blood. You should eat it, Rosita, before I do, Angustia warns, wiping her hand’s salt on her bare belly.

I don’t know—

Where’s all this hunger for oysters coming from? Consuelo asks Angustia, interrupting Rosario. Her pink bathing suit appears grey tonight. Consuelo steps back from under the oyster cart’s opened umbrella—a tattered cloth clawed by the breezes, a paraguas that’s never snapped shut—and Angustia spots a lime seed stuck on her friend’s upper lip, in that lacuna below her nose.

Got something on your face, smartass, Angustia replies, crossing her arms. Consuelo immediately looks away. An embarrassed hand brushes her skin and the seed topples. More food for the worms.

Is it gone? she asks.

Listen, she’s right—you eat these like you’ve never been afraid of them, Dolores jokes with Angustia, her elbow nodding Angustia’s hip. Dolores’s eyebrows still a tad white from all the sunscreen she reapplied earlier. The layers of cream crack as Dolores raises her eyebrows at an unimpressed Angustia. What? It’s true, she says.

Ouch, Angustia replies. I’ll never forget how to eat an ostión if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s not something you forget when you move away.

More like Dolo and Consuelo both can’t believe you don’t remember all the times these have made you sick, Rosario says. She lifts the oyster up to her nose and smells. Ugh. I think I’ll pass. Not that hungry anyways, she says.

Just do it, Consuelo tells Rosario, stepping forward and pushing her squeamish nose into the slimy gills of the dead animal.

Fuck off, Consuelo! Rosario cries.

You can’t just bully someone into eating an oyster, Angustia utters, rolling her eyes. You’re gonna cut up her pretty face with the sharp shell. And then I’ll cut yours in return.

Chicas, chicas, be careful now, the seller cautions as he counts his moist dollars, at times licking the tip of his finger to separate the bills. Don’t hurt each other, not in front of her, he says, lips pursed at the dark horizon.

Angustia turns to face the ocean at night. An eternal darkness that shifts and shimmers, a quiet that burps up foam. As Angustia and her friends dined from the carrito de ostiones, the water devoured half of the beach, warm saltwater now reaching their toes. The worms float and the oyster cart begins to sink.

We should head back soon, Rosario says as her mouth widens and she dangles the oyster over her teeth. Aaahhh, she says, her throat open, her body ready. Nothing slides down, no matter how much her hand wobbles. See? It won’t even let me eat it. Not meant to be.

Oh, Jesus. Just slurp, Consuelo laughs.

Gimme it here, Angustia instructs Rosario. She tugs the ostión away from her best friend’s warm palm and eats it.

The vendor waves goodbye and rings his bell. The young women together say Gracias and watch him push the cart with all his might. His back arched, feet fighting the sloppy sand, his face so unbothered, like he’s done this so many times: feed the hungry beachgoers at night, even if the tide rises, even if the cart sinks, even if the ocean eats it all. He heads north, searching for other hungry diners on the lonesome beach.

Yeah, we should probably head back soon, Dolores says, arms wrapped, her body shivering. Angustia joins and protects her friend from the cold night winds with a side hug. Dolores’s sunblock bits dot Angustia’s brow.

I don’t hear them anymore, Consuelo says.

Don’t hear what? they ask.

The bells. El carrito del vendedor, Consuelo answers.

The women’s feet slush around as they turn their heads to the headlands, in the direction of the oyster seller.

Maybe he went home, like we probably should, Rosario says.

Angustia places her hand on her stomach, her palm scraping the sandy bits stuck to her from her sunset swim. She wipes the acid from her lips and feels the ocean’s espuma tingle her foot bridge.

Maybe we should, she adds. I’m not feeling so well.

I fucking knew it, Consuelo laughs. Your body is so not used to this anymore, she says.

To what?

To this whole country, Dolores answers for Consuelo, her forehead pressed against Angustia’s sticky neck. Her pulse beats against Dolores’s eyelashes.

That’s what happens when you move away, Angus, Consuelo says.

And leave us behind, Dolores adds, laughing. Her I’m just kidding washes away with the hushed waves.

A body doesn’t forget where it’s from, Angustia replies.

Yeah, but your bacteria does, Consuelo says, her eyebrows raised and su cara grinning so hard. With the moonlight, Angustia can make out the face of pequeña Consuelo who grew up to always smile the same way: lips leaning a little too much to the left side to form a crooked smile. La chueca they called her for so long until Consuelo begged them their senior year of high school to stop, since the rumor implied other parts of her body were crooked, too.

Are you going to be sick? Rosario asks Angustia. I don’t know if we have any medicine back in the apartment. I didn’t bring anything for that—

A stifled scream. The ocean winds blow Angustia’s hair back and dry her feet. A shriek that holds them as they search for meaning in each other’s eyes. Above, clouds shift, and the moonlight abandons them.

What was that? Consuelo asks.

Was that the dude’s bells? Did he get far? Dolores asks, lifting her head. She left an imprint of warmth on Angustia’s neck; she places her palm on the curve where her shoulder meets her nape, safekeeping the touch Dolores gifted her.

Perhaps someone else caught a glimpse at the vendor’s slab where he shucked our oysters. His cart was filthy, Rosa utters, crossing her arms.

And the night delivers another bawl. Not an ocean roar, for the bay’s waves are hushed. It is a cry of an open mouth, a gurgling wail. A sharp, guttural sound Angus feels deep inside her chest. The shriek slams into the palm trees decorating the periphery of the cement sidewalk. Trunks groan, fronds are whipped backwards. The women look up to catch glimpses of the crowns shaking, of the green fruit falling, descending and cracking open on the sidewalk, the fruits’ thuds as loud as the scream that pulled them down. Hard membranes walloped open, seeds suspended in sacks, a new splatter to color the long sidewalk linking all the Casablanca beach apartments together besides spilled beer foam from late night teenager escapadas. The night animals will cherish the gift of the scream, hocicos slimy with unripe fruit.

Oh, fuck, Angustia says. I’m definitely not feeling well, she whispers, her hand now caressing the space between her hip and her bellybutton. Is that even possible? To get food poisoning so fast?

Her friends don’t answer her question. They look away, where the black water meets the black sky.

But seriously, what was that? It sounded like someone was dying, Consuelo asks, walking away from her girlfriends and squatting into the warm water, her hands playing and swishing around, seeking an answer from the sea. Floating worms skim Consuelo’s fingertips, and she dismisses their miry skin as the slimy scales of tiny fish.

I think someone’s crying, Angustia says, walking further into the sea until the surface reaches her knees. Rosario follows, landing her chin on Angustia’s neck. Angustia doesn’t add that she feels she will be crying soon, too. Perhaps screaming soon, if the ostiones get her sick. She doesn’t tell her girlfriends—reliable Rosario who didn’t pick her up at the airport, annoying Consuelo who never wanted to join the group video calls claiming her internet couldn’t handle the pixels, Let’s keep it just voice, okay?, and cute Dolores whose life moved on without Angustia in so many ways—that she fears her body is betraying her, that her Andean genes were somehow erased on the plane ride overseas, that her guts and blood and carne don’t recognize where they’re from.

Is it the sea? Dolores asks, her legs splashing as she shuffles closer to Consuelo, eyes set on her friend’s splatter. Angustia’s left ear can hear Rosario smiling, her lips parting, cheeks pulling to reveal her perfect set of teeth. She smiles at the joke she knows one of them will utter.

A calling that begins as a tease.

It’s Consuelo who first says it. Her mouth the lighthouse that was never erected here despite the summer people’s deep pockets and insistence. Consuelo’s words are a signal, her breath a gleam of desire.

We did it, Consuelo begins, her soaked bathing suit clinging to every curve on her body. We hurt her feelings, she says.

El mar? Angustia asks.

Shouldn’t it be la mar if it’s a lady? A lady goddess? Rosario interjects.

What exactly hurt la diosa? Me eating Rosa’s ostión? I basically did Rosita here a favor, Angustia says, her head pointing at Rosario’s.

Wait, when did you eat Rosa’s oyster? When did that finally happen? Consuelo asks laughing, her head tilted upwards. There it is, the chueca smile in the middle of the night.

No, imbécil, Rosario corrects her. It’s us fighting. That’s what the vendor said, Rosario says. The goddess cries because we fought.

It was more like a disagreement—Angustia says.

It was a threat, Consuelo interjects. You said you’d cut my face.

I still stand by that.

Or was it your body forgetting, Angus? Dolores asks.

Huh?

I think it’s true what they say, Dolores continues, kneeling, sinking into the water with Consuelo, one hand still on her friend’s shoulder to steady herself.

What is? Angustia asks.

The ocean is salty because la diosa cries, she answers.

Who makes her cry? Who makes her so sad? Consuelo asks, her hand sifting the sticky foam, fingers fighting the worms out to bite.

The woeful.

Windows without glass, only ironwork in the shape of a face. No eyes, lips full, long and curly hair. The woman of the window lets in the morning sun, blessing the fish market this summer morning. Rosario and Angustia enter the only seafood mart they’ve come to know in Casablanca, a local assortment of fish caught from a beach not too far from here, since this Casablanca shore is only for swimming. And this fish market is only for tourist eyes, tailored for the summer people who own the rows and rows of white houses perched on the coastal hills.

Rosario and Angustia carry the spare change and folded bills they’ll need stuffed inside their short jean pockets. No purses, no totes. Their flip flops slap the puddled epoxy flooring. Walls once painted sky blue, men shouting things—prices, jokes, each other’s names—and buckets of fish heads: the sounds and scents of el mercado tell Angustia her departure is inconsequential. This beach town still functions without her. Nothing has changed. She hasn’t missed one beat of its summering. It’s the vacation she takes all over again, and Angustia is still the same person: thighs that rub together so much from wearing shorts like these at night, she rushes to treat them with a balm; freckles the Casablanca sun gifted her sprawled on her nose bridge; eyelashes forever clumped together by brackish water.

She’s all here, every part of her. Anchored.

The young women pass by hands tossing troupes of shrimp on rusty scales, hands shoving fish fillets into colorful plastic bags, hands chucking buckets of fresh water over working slabs, showering the stations until they’re clean.

Does he even work here anymore? Like, is Hernán alive? Angustia asks Rosario, her head leaning forward, legs trying to keep up with Rosario’s quick pace around the market counters.

You did not just ask that, Rosario replies, her eyes facing forward. Angustia sinks into her shoulders, crossing her arms and smiling at strangers as she follows Rosario into the backend of el mercado.

They reach the furthest wall from the entrance of no doors, only a gate that’s never locked. No merchandise is left here overnight. Above them, a ceiling veiled, the glassless iron windows have allowed branches to penetrate and grow on each other, creating a webbing of twigs for iguanas to gather and sleep here at night. Vine tendrils followed the growth; nodes rest on ramas and two clusters sway below the lip of the iron woman, the droopy leaves giving the deidad teeth.

Señor Hernán, Rosario greets the man with a head nod, and Angustia does not believe it’s still him. His eyes shrunken and sagging, nose and ears bigger, hands a different shade than the rest of his skin, a golden chain tucked inside his white undershirt. It’s really him, old Hernán and his same fish slab.

Buenos días, niñas, he says to them. The girls smile in response. They purchase dorado filets and heaps of shrimp with a markdown, the reason all families rush to Hernán in the morning. He likes making the summer people believe they’re getting a discount. As Hernán counts the bills still warm with the heat from the girl’s bodies, he opens his mouth to say something, revealing the gold shimmer of his canines.

I’ll see you next time, niña Rosario, he thanks them. Make sure to bring your new friend around next time, he says, smiling at Angustia.

It’s me, señor Hernán, Angustia says, clearing her throat. Her hand flat on her chest, signaling. She searches for some semblance of recognition in the old man’s eyes. From all the teenage trips to the mercado after the morning rush—Dolores, Rosario, Consuelo, and Angustia would purposefully delay the errand of buying lunch ingredients so they could hang out by the sea and smoke cigarettes—or from the times she’d step inside the market as a child, holding her mother’s hand, unwilling to let go because the smell of fresh seafood haunted her, because the faceless window woman stared at her. How could Hernán not remember Angustia, how could she not leave a mark in this place when it has shaped her so?

Oh, yes, Hernán nods along, comforting an anxious Angustia. I remember, I think. I remember.

When they leave el mercado, Rosario still hasn’t uttered a word. She conceals jokes and reassurances behind a lipless smile. She places her hand on her brow and covers her face from the morning sun, preparing herself for the climb uphill.

The apartment is a few minutes away by car and fifteen on foot. Dolores and Consuelo remained up in the mountains and are on cleaning duty—sweeping sand from inside the apartment, the Sisyphean task of the beach, and washing dishes after breakfast—while they sent Rosario and Angustia out to buy the fish and face the dreaded workout of the incline walk back up the mountain. Angustia didn’t mind; she looked forward to a morning with only Rosario. Catch up, talk with her alone without Consuelo interrupting, without Dolores distracting Angustia. She wanted to talk with her mejor amiga and find out all the things she wouldn’t say over video calls or texts, all the life she lived without Angustia.

Did the ocean goddess’s scream kill your sense of humor or what? Angustia asks.

Huh?

Just say it, Angustia says. Whatever burn you’re concocting.

Rosario stands tall. The forever summers in Casablanca have dyed her brown hair a little blond, but she won’t admit she’s a rubia now. She has grown into her first communion necklace, the once-enormous pendant dangling Jesus’s face that’s always looking like it’s about to burst into tears. Kind of like Angustia is about to right now.

I hope we can eat all of this today, Rosario replies, interrupting Angustia’s thoughts. I don’t think Hernán’s shrimp ever lasts beyond a day or two in the fridge, she says. It’s like the cold freezes all the flavor out of these little guys.

No, that’s not what you really want to say, Angustia insists.

What do you mean?

About Hernán not remembering me? About no one remembering me here? How I don’t fit in Casablanca anymore because I left the country? An outsider who’s just another tourist now?

But you did leave, Rosario says. And we are tourists, she jokes.

And you are a bitch, Angustia replies, rolling her eyes. She turns and faces the mercado behind them. The sun casts a harsh light and creates a cavern of the front door; Angustia can’t see inside it anymore. She can only hear the men chanting and cutting, the windows delineating la deidad letting in all the breeze and night animals.

Don’t let it get to you, Angus. The man barely recalls who I am, and I come here every year, Rosario comforts Angustia; she turns to face Rosario, who extends the rainbow-patterned plastic bag to her as a peace offering. Can you take it? It’s so heavy, she asks.

Sure.

They decide to take the long way home, which means trekking through the beach before looping up the infinite sets of stairs to their summer home, the house Rosario’s parents want to put up for sale since their children are no longer children but adults well into their thirties. Rosario begged them not to. When the young women arrived after the six-hour drive from Quito, the capital, and after their bodies began recovering from Consuelo’s aggressive driving maneuvers, she saw it: a For Sale sign taped onto the kitchen window facing the street. Rosario took it down and hid it underneath the sink.

Angustia twirls the plastic bag of shrimp they’ll have to devein. Perhaps Consuelo will be good at that, wielding the knife tip, burrowing it inside the little shrimp’s body. She’s just so good at poking and stabbing. The tiny shrimp don’t have a shot at any type of mercy. Rosario and Angustia were cheap and did not splurge on the export-quality sized shrimp, and so the dead grey creatures are petite and delicate and defenseless.

Who are the young women going to impress with expensive crustaceans, anyway; it’s just the four of them this weekend away. It took a lot of effort, but they all made it here. And they are going to savor the tiny shrimp together during this escape, this solid attempt of rekindling Angustia’s withering friendships veiled as a mini getaway to welcome her back home. Rosario offered her family’s home when Angustia proposed a beach trip in their Whatsapp group. Dolores said her husband agreed to watch over their son; this made Angustia frantic as she tried not to sound too condescending as she typed up a response—it’s not babysitting if it’s his own child!—a message she never sent. Consuelo put up a fight—she’s too busy at work; she doesn’t want to spend her precious vacation days at a beach they know inside out—but then offered to drive the four of them down to Casablanca, a favor Angustia really wish she’d said No to.

The sand remembers last night. The tire marks from el vendedor’s small oyster truck were washed away when the girls dined, when the sinking began. But dried arroyos from the tires remain and vanish north. Angustia stares at the cement wall dividing the raised sidewalk and the beach; a thin wet line marks the rise of the tide, the wail of the night.

There’s no one here, Rosario says, her eyes squinting at the empty Casablanca shoreline. A waving red flag stands in the middle of the beach, a warning for swimmers to stay away from hazardous ocean conditions.

What? So, no swimming today? What’s the point? Angustia asks, holding the fish bag up to her chest. It’s getting warm under the Esmeraldas sun.

Ummm, seeing each other after five years since you’ve visited? Rosario answers, crossing her arms. She walks towards the sea, la marea far away from her body. A tide ebb unveiled the creatures they don’t get to see when they’re summering in Casablanca, like sand dollars in the shape of broken skulls, the worms that feast at night, and the blackened seaweed they only feel when they swim deep inside the Pacific, often as a dare.

Angus, look at this, Rosario calls for her. Angustia hasn’t followed her best friend down into the beach. She stands there, digesting Rosario’s acrid comment, feeling the sun on her shoulders, smelling the plastic melt into the body of the grey shrimps she carries.

Going, she says, gritting her teeth.

The sand feels cool on her toes. She holds both flip-flops with one hand and the shrimp bag with the other as Angustia finds balance on the hardened sand. Boulders that find shelter under the sea are now exposed alongside Rosario’s footprints. Dozens of dark and slimy abyssal stones naked. Underwater anémonas and their retracted tentacles are still suctioned on the patchy surfaces. Orange edges, a brim of pink, and a brown core. She smiles as the slippery pezón beings shrink under the sun.

Angustia leans over to smell the anemone, a body part so bare under the bright noon light. Saline skin with a hint of sweetness. She drops the flip-flops and squats closer, the back of her index finger caressing the creature. Its core recedes further, a shy reflex, and something squirms from inside. Two tiny arms, lithe pink tentacles burgeon from the recesses of this body. They seize Angustia’s finger. Their touch sticky and wet and briny. She feels what was once cool now warm, the same temperature as her body. The sanguine tendrils slide over her finger, drawing her hand in; the anémona wants a deeper touch, she yearns for Angustia’s embrace, for flesh that has always belonged.

Over here, Angus, Rosario calls for her.

The anemone’s appendages slither back into the pezón. Angustia picks up her sandals—her skin still wet from anemone contact—and heads deeper into the beach. The yellowed sand before her is enshrouded by a shiny kelp bed.

Other women have joined Rosario. They carry backpacks and point at a barren beach and the sprawling seaweed by their feet. No other customers to approach. They attempted to convince Rosario of weaving her hair, but a pixie cut isn’t the easiest of material to work with.

What about you, señorita? Any interest this morning? It’ll protect you from the heat! Isn’t it so hot? one of them asks as Angustia. The women smell like coco butter, their foreheads un resplandor.

They want to braid your hair, Rosario indicates. But they also offer massages and tarot readings, if you’re feeling a little…lost? Misplaced? Neglected, perhaps?

Perhaps not, Angustia laughs with Rosario. No, no, but thank you, Angustia says to the braiders, su mirada lowers to the stinky seaweed below. Is something wrong with it? she asks, kneeling closer.

Well I’m gonna get to work, the other weaver says, struggling to sit crisscross on the hardened sand. Her partner joins her. Their bodies topple, backpacks rattle with their hair braiding paraphernalia. Combs, brushes, oils, and a pouch of dollar coins. They sit with their backs facing the white houses of Casablanca and their necks tilted downwards, busy hands gathering seaweed strands. A movement they know so well from all the patterns they’ve woven on the heads of summer people. Tight braids that leave imprints of waves on loose hair for weeks after the trenzas are unraveled.

Can we join? Rosario asks. They smile and nod their heads together. Rosario pulls Angustia down with her, their sweaty thighs touching.

Wait, wait, what am I supposed to do with this? Angustia asks, holding up the shrimp bag for Rosario to see.

Just leave it. We’ll cook it soon enough. Here, she says, handing over a kelp tendril to her best friend, the one she hasn’t physically seen in five years. Angustia lays their lunch meat behind her—the bag rolls a little with the weight of the shrimp and fish fillets and lands on the small of her back, a much-needed patch of cold—and holds the smelly alga marina.

Angustia pulls the strand—a jellylike blade, a slithery string that smells like tang and salt—and the frond refuses to break. The base is nowhere to be seen, roots hidden from Rosario and Angustia and the women who braid. Together, they let the moist sand wet their jean shorts and entwine the ocean’s hair while the saline winds blow and blow.

The goddess needs a haircut, Rosario says, and Angustia falls on her back laughing, a real guttural cackle.

On the mountains, a sigh that opens windows. Breath of salt, almost like a whimper from her mouth. The young women cook dinner on the hillside of her hips, her skin of dark mud and glassy sand. Her cry is quiet tonight as it whelms the summer girls one last time.

They plate shrimp ceviche with dollops of popcorn and a tower of crispy plantain chips carefully fried by Dolores. Angustia devours her bowl. Her eating is not as gracious as she’d like. Perhaps it’s because they downed a bottle of wine as they were prepping dinner. Or perhaps because this dish means home, this flavor of identity she can only find here. A piece of her. And she wants to consume it all, her tangible self. The rest of them eat quietly, sometimes eyeing Angustia’s gobbling, but most of the time letting the sounds of the goddess’s surf wash over them. Angustia is done before her friends, and so she waits with her tongue licking the edges of her mouth, hoping the delicious ceviche will make amends for her, hoping it says the things she can’t.

I want to know what I’ve missed, Angustia asks, slurping her white wine. Specifically, the goss, she adds.

The lay of the land, you say, Rosario says, nodding along.

The gossip of the land, Angustia corrects her.

We’ll need to be here longer than three days then, Dolores answers, smiling. She licks her ceviche spoon clean. Consuelo picks up her plate and begins stacking the others; she yanks Angustia’s away, even though there was still a little heap of rice soaking inside her bowl, a last bite she planned to finish up when she wasn’t feeling so full.

Espéra, I—

I feel like we always keep you up to date in the group chat, Consuelo says. She walks towards the sink, her long ponytail swinging with her stride. Clinking plates punctuate the end of her sentence. She begins washing the dishes, as the rest of them are still seated, still sipping their chilled wine.

We can do those later, Rosario indicates to a Consuelo that’s already rinsing.

Perhaps you could visit more often, and we wouldn’t need three days’ worth to catch you up on the gossip of the land, Consuelo retorts, ignoring Rosario.

I’m sure she tried visiting more often, but it’s money issues, right, Angus? Dolores asks, a hand on her full belly, the other on her wine glass. Her eyes wide and a little red from the chlorine of the community pool they swam in since the ocean was still barred by red flags after lunch. The patterned bottom tiles of the pool a mosaic Angustia can retrace from memory.

Actually, I think her graduate program has kept her super busy, Rosario adds, nodding. She offers Angustia a delicate smile, an olive branch to save her.

It’s that overseas life. She’s forgotten all about her childhood friends, Consuelo says, spoons chiming with the walls of the stainless sink. Angustia is sure Consuelo’s smiling that chueca smirk, offering her warped lips and teeth to their backyard jungle through the kitchen window. But to her friends, all she can give is her tight ponytail and remarks.

I tried talking in our group chat. And what about all those video calls? But y’all wouldn’t put in much effort—

As opposed to your efforts of only visiting once every five years? Consuelo asks. Once done, she wipes the counter with a rag.

It’s only been five years. Don’t make it seem like she’s been gone longer, Rosario answers for Angustia. It’s not a pattern.

Don’t worry about it, Rosa. I leave, but it seems nothing’s changed, Angustia begins, her cheeks red and tongue tingling. Consuelo’s still a bitch five years later.

Querida, things do change, Consuelo replies. She sits back down and chugs the rest of her wine with one gulp, hands still damp. Dolo had a kid, she says, pursing her lips across the table to a quiet Dolores that keeps folding her napkin over and over again. Rosa cut her hair like she said she never would and finally broke up with that idiot Fede, she adds, setting eyes on Rosario who now rolls hers in return. Plus, her parents are selling this house. So, no more summers to come back to, no more summers you’ll miss, she ends with the most crooked grin her face can contort.

Wait, they are? Dolores asks Rosario, her voice so innocent it makes Angustia want to vomit her dinner. Her precious ceviche dinner.

How do you know about that?

I found the For Sale sign you tucked away under the sink.

You mean the sign she hid from us and didn’t tell us about? All of this clearly done on purpose? Angustia asks.

I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you’re inferring, Consuelo answers. I’m not a snoop. I was looking for rubber gloves so I could do the dishes. Couldn’t find any, by the way, she adds. Maybe I should’ve brought some from home.

You don’t have to do the dishes by yourself. We agreed in the car ride over. We were going to take turns. We’re all grown. But I’m sure that wouldn’t give you any ammunition to pull the victim card on us all weekend. Poor Consuelo who has to clean up after her friends, poor Consuelo who isn’t thanked when she does all the work, Angustia rants.

We shouldn’t have drunk two bottles tonight, Dolores utters.

No, we really shouldn’t have, Rosario says.

I feel fine, Angustia states. I’m glad we’re here.

Me too, Dolores says, grabbing Rosario’s hand under the glass table.

I’m glad this is the last time we’re going to be here together, Rosario says to Dolores, petting her hand.

Turned out better than I thought it would, honestly, Consuelo says.

Glad the snooper is happy, Angustia murmurs.

Quit it, Angustia, Consuelo says.

Not the full name, Rosario smiles.

Quit it, both of you, Dolores asks.

It’s true though, Rosario says, letting go of Dolores’s hand and using it to scratch her head. You were always a snoop, she says to Consuelo, slurping some of her s’s.

You’re not helping, Rosa, Dolores whispers.

Even when we played sardines here every summer, Angustia adds, ignoring Dolores. Always snooping.

No, I wasn’t, Consuelo replies.

You’d hide in places we didn’t consent to—

Wait, like that time she climbed a palm tree! Rosario points and laughs at a window.

And when it was your turn to seek, you’d find us—usually me—stare at me in the eyes, and then just leave, pretend you didn’t see me and then go tell poor Dolo here or Rosa probably something like I think I heard movement underneath the bed! And bam! You’d be the last one to find us, the winner.

I would never cheat like that, Dolo pleads, shaking her head.

I know you wouldn’t, Angustia replies, combing Dolo’s wet hair with her fingers. But Consuelo would.

We should honor the house one more time! Rosario exclaims. She pushes her chair back, and it screeches on the ceramic tiles. Sardinas? she asks, extending her hand to Angustia.

Only if Angustia hides first, Consuelo agrees.

Boca abierta. Her body shifts as she leans on the bathroom counter—a thin wet line stamping her t-shirt—and opens wide. The mirror light casts an intense shine on poor Angustia: wine drunk, forehead peeling because she forgot to reapply sunscreen during the pre-lunch braiding session, remnants of eyeliner that somehow survived both the pool and then the shower, a face so full of melancholia it breaks her own heart. The light doesn’t illuminate Angustia’s throat that well; it hurts when she swallows, and all she can see is her dangly uvula. And another fleshy lump. A pink, slimy member in her mouth, a tentacle that swarms out when she tries to cough it out. A piece of her she’s birthed here, an appendage seeking permanence.

She hears movement and quickly turns off the bathroom light. Angustia recoils inside the bathroom cabinet beneath the sink, her chosen hiding spot. She remembers fitting in here with much ease a decade ago; now she can barely stretch her legs.

Is it you? a voice asks as the light switch flicks on.

Angustia stays quiet, her teeth biting down on her lower lip.

The light is turned back off, but the cabinet door is tugged open.

Make room for me, a quiet Rosario asks Angustia. Together, the first sardines clump together, their bodies snuggling.

You found me so fast, Angustia complains.

This is your favorite spot, Rosario says. She leans her forehead on Angustia’s head. Their thighs rub together. Angustia can feel the unshaven spots Rosario missed on her long legs. She smells the chlorine of her short hair, the aloe vera she applied to the top of her ears. She takes in the scent of her best friend—a perfume she’s missed for so long—and lets her appendage poke Rosario’s head.

No tickling! Rosario laughs. You’ll give us away.

Are we really playing sardinas for the last time? Angustia asks. She clears her throat and feels her inner meaty tendrils slide over her upper lip. They want to nestle with Rosario, want to hang on to her pixie hair and the crying Jesus and the hairy legs so Angustia doesn’t lose her again.

It is, Rosario answers. Her voice becomes a whimper, a tear that rolls down her cheek and onto Angustia’s, her body so happy to receive it.

Your tear is as salty as the sea, Angustia says to her best friend. Just like the goddess’s.

I could never be like the goddess, Rosario begins to cry.

Oh, hush, pretty girl, Angustia soothes her best friend. Their thighs snarled, skin tangled.

Wait, wait, I hear someone. Sshh, Rosario whispers.

The bathroom door creaks open, but the light remains off.

Maybe it’s the wind from the open window, Angustia murmurs to a Rosario that still cries.

Maybe it’s because you suck at hiding, Angus, Dolores says as she snatches open the cabinet door. Make room for me, bitches, she giggles. Drunk Dolores tries maneuvering inside, navigating a dark sea of limbs and ceviche breaths.

There’s literally zero room here. Like none. Like, Rosa’s body is now my body. That’s how little room there is, Angustia laughs while Rosario sits on her and makes room for an insisting Dolores.

Consuelo’s out in the terrace looking for y’all, she whispers, closing the cabinet door with her toes. She was always so bad at this game. Maybe that’s why she’d cheat, Dolores says, containing her cackle behind her hands.

You’re weirdly good at using your toes like that, Angustia chortles.

Sssshh, she’s going to find us if you keep laughing, Dolores says. And if you keep crying, Rosa. Why are you crying? Dolo asks, placing her head on Rosario’s exposed belly, listening in to the sadness of her body. Angustia wraps her left arm around Dolores’s hip, fingertips grazing her exposed cesarean scar.

She’s melancólica about their summer home, Angustia answers for her, her tendrils rubbing Rosario’s head and affixing the girls together.

Oh, me too, little Rosa, Dolo whispers.

I’m so happy you’re here, Rosario angry cries. And I’m so mad at you Angus because you haven’t been here in forever and now my parents are selling the house and the us from Casablanca will no longer exist, she cries. We won’t find them anywhere else.

They’ll always exist, Dolores soothes Rosario. Their bodies fuse together with the littoral heat. The slimy appendages protruding from Angustia have now reached Dolores. Dolores’s face is sucked into Rosario’s belly, her legs glued to Angustia’s, and when the light flicks on and Consuelo jerks the cabinet door open, the first thing she sees is her best friends hanging out without her.

Beneath the sink, a splotch of sunburnt skin and scars, greasy lips from plantain chips, toes that open doors, pixie cuts, and tentacle throats.

I win, Consuelo says, her eyes squinting at the woven carne of her amigas, all that piel knotted into one.

You win, Angustia says back. Her voices exits through Dolores’s mouth.

She told me to find you here, Consuelo says, kneeling in front of the blob of women.

Who did? Dolores asks, her lips cemented into Rosario, her saliva pooling.

No way—was it Dolores? Rosario asks. You said you wouldn’t cheat, she says, laughing and moving her belly up and down, shaking poor Dolores’s head.

Ouch! she manages to utter.

La diosa, Consuelo answers. The goddess whispered it through her winds, told me to find you right here, she says. Let’s go to her, she urges, pulling at Dolores’s free hand. She calls for us.

A gnarl of chicas, a cluster of giggles. They lump towards the beach, the right foot of Angustia’s pulling everyone forward. Consuelo’s hand now Dolores’s, Rosario’s body coiled on Angustia’s torso. They laugh as they almost topple downhill and roll, a colossal and tender bulk of tan lines and chapstick lips a menace. Moths wrap their wings on streetlights. Bats fly so close, the mass of girls and their cackles concealed by the murciélago screeches. Snakes slither next to them, headed the same direction, down to the beach, to the salty tears of the goddess, to her beautifully braided seaweed hair, to her nipples perched on boulders, to the foam of her heart. When the blob of young women reaches the night beach and the current grasps them by their one ankle, the ocean smiles in a roar as it witnesses las melancólicas reconciled.

© 2025 Ana Hurtado