The Terrace Tomas has a crush on me. I’ve mentioned this before, but it has started to get a little out of hand. He bought a bottle of white peach wine for me, and we discussed its value as he tried to get me to drink it with him on his bed. Every time I want to go up to the Terrace and sit in the fust with the city-wind blowing over cooling, Tomas is waiting. He stands two feet away and looks at me full in the face. His head tilts up, and I look back, wondering just what exactly he is waiting for. And I know he is waiting; his eyes are expectations.

I want to stand, look out over the rooftops – so many white similarities in this city, so many antennas and wire lines stretched out for electricity and laundry. Occasionally, you can look out over La FAE and all you see are formations of linen waving and snapping. If you look down, people hover and walk on the streets. Last night, a woman under a tree with her head bowed. Three girls huddled gossip-poised in a doorway. Two boys at the corner market, hand in one pocket, hips tilted, eyes looking for passers. The chickens and ducks are bedded in the dark, and light spits selectively from posts. There is no grass, but rocks, dry dust dirt, litter, and weeds. Security guards stand about every two blocks, a whistle around their neck and a rifle in their arms. They whistle whenever they see something “suspicious.” Apparently, Big Tom is always suspicious.

This is why I go to the terrace, but it doesn’t matter why I am there, because Tomas is always waiting, and he always knows that I am there to see him, to look at his small brown face, the mustache below his aging nose, and say something. He has been in Guayaquil for nine years, he told me, but he has no friends and never goes out unless it is to get drunk. He has been waiting with this look on his face for nine years. He gathers himself in the hammock that hangs, keeps a beer near his hand, and looks at the terrace flowers he waters every night at five-fifteen prompt. I get the sense that whenever I am there, he feels like something new has come into this life that has become pure routine and loneliness for him. But unfortunately, I cannot help silent faces that look up at me, that cajole me to sit on their beds and drink wine with them.