Nocturnal Inventory
The vampire pays rent in Santa Tere and works closing shifts. No one knows; they just think he’s “one of those who gets the most out of night.” He leaves when the metal shutters drop and the city changes voice: scooters speak softly, dogs trade gossip like prayers, and the air carries bougainvillea, gasoline, and end-of-day sweet bread.
No cape. A black sweater and a backpack with amber bottles: pomegranate, hibiscus, beet. He learned that red can fool hunger, and sometimes just watching it cool on glass is enough to remember his manners. When the ache insists, he walks to Expiatorio and sits on the side bench where shadow falls evenly. The bells give his thirst a metronome.
He keeps rules: no lying, no biting strangers, no entering houses that haven’t learned your name. Once he tried the Chapultepec nightlife, but lights there dance without shadow and selfies steal more than he ever could. He prefers markets at closing: stalls powering down, lettuce whispering, mangoes drifting toward sleep. That’s where he hears stories—people heavy with a memory, people who want to sleep without dreaming, people who beg to forget a name. To them he offers the only thing he does gently: lift a little weight without cutting the rope.
A girl—honest circles under her eyes, nails painted violet—comes to his counter at 11:14. Sparkling water with hibiscus, no sugar. In her pocket: a slip of paper with a name crossed out eleven times. He sees it and nods, like reading a familiar recipe.
“I’m not afraid of winter,” she says. “I’m afraid of remembering when it comes.”
He sets down the glass, looks at the misted pane as if it were an old window. He explains without words: the exchange is minimal, almost liturgical. Two fingers to the pulse—permission; a measured breath timed to the bell; a pinch of cold that leaves no mark. What he takes isn’t life—it’s excess. He hands the glass back; she drinks it like drinking a “finally.”
“Do I owe you?” she asks.
“You keep it,” he answers.
Later he walks to Hospicio Cabañas, where murals dream of skies that swallowed knives. He reads shadow there—learns the grammar of arches, the rests of fountains. Sometimes he climbs to Huentitán and lets the canyon teach him to say no to the large thirst.
Dawn. He returns with his sweater smelling of bread and wet stoplights. Before sleep he leaves a pomegranate bottle on the sill so the 7:30 light can stain the wall red. It reminds him who he is without noise. In the fridge he keeps two things: bags of ice and the word patience on a note.
When the city hurries out, he pulls the shade and lies down. He doesn’t fear crosses; he fears photos. He doesn’t fear God; he fears forgetting the names of those who entrusted him with theirs. On the pillow, a purple hair not his glints like a comet trace. He smiles. Another nocturnal inventory, without headlines. Guadalajara, grateful, lends him the exact shadow so sleep won’t bite back.
