Ramon Salazar

"Oh nothing," she says, looking down to where her hands rest on his chest. He's warm and solid beneath her, his voice is the right timbre in her ears, years of cigar smoke and tequila having filed off all the bright edges. Her fingertips dig into his skin, just a little, feeling the soft layer of padding over his muscles. It's her Ramon, not some young punk who called her puta.

"You just as much asked me why I didn't cheat on you. With your nineteen year old self. Excuse me if I'm a little -- taken aback by that."