Iris talking to the man with the cane, Vincent. Gesturing, posing. Iris lying next to him on a towel. Standing behind him, her hands in his hair as he tried to read his book. Kissing him. Walking with him…

Oh, man. Isidro saw those pictures and had the best idea of his life. He drove to Iris Ruiz’s house on Calle del Parque and knocked on the door to her upstairs flat.

She was dressed to leave, white purse under her arm, a scowl on her face. He believed at first she scowled because she didn’t recognize him and was annoyed, but soon found it was her nature to scowl. When he explained who he was and reminded her of a few things she shook her head and said in English, “I think you have the wrong person.”

Isidro said, “It’s okay with me,” following her down the stairs. “But let me tell you about this guy who’s too good to be true. One in at least a million… Listen, where you going? Come on, I drive you, free.” Like that, getting her in the taxi, the steps of his plan falling into place. Until he handed her the pictures-letting her open the envelope herself, curious now, sure-because everyone liked to look at pictures. She looked at five or six of them, scowling again, said in English, “Why you showing me these? I never want to see him again!” And threw the pictures at the windshield.

Isidro had to stop the taxi, reach down to gather some that were on the floor, wipe them on his leg, look to see if any were damaged. He could scowl too, saying, “What’s wrong with you? I’m not showing you him, your frien’, whoever he is-”