Luis Miguel Davila Mendoza was born on the heaviest day of rainfall Padilla had seen in nearly fifty years. The village in the tropics was unprepared for the ten inches of downpour, coming down hard over the metal rooftops of their flimsy dwellings. A forth of the aging structures in the community had collapsed but the Davila’s were fortunate; they only had to worry about the rainwater which had soaked through the floorboards and into their biggest mattress, occupied by the laboring Sra. Mendoza de Davila.
In their first, the timing was all wrong in the dilapidated stairway of a narrow frat house. She was pledged to another yet that did not stop him from confessing his love to her tears. How could there be tears missing what never happened? The second time the timing was right but the people had changed. His heart was hardened and he wore a smile for accessory. In the dance floor crowded with people seeking and calling out, their eyes found one another amongst the many shots fired and missed.
“You looked so sad.” His simple, whispered words are ones she would remember until the day everything turned to stardust and even beyond that.
The third time was the final and also the story for a story is both a beginning and the end. The third time, she trekked to him, moth to the flame, giving up more than she knew before she even knocked on that door.