“Do an ollie next!” Nick yells around a mouthful of burrito. “Para el proximo, hacer un ollie!”

His words echo across the morning-streaked plaza. Several Mexican kids are milling around on skateboards, slowly commuting to their elementary school. A mop-headed nino bursts into motion. He isn’t much bigger than his backpack, festooned with pins and bumper stickers and a dyed rabbit’s foot. I close my eyes, focusing on the sound his skateboard makes. Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick — swoosh — CRACK! Clickclickclickclick…

We’re sitting hip-to-hip on the tiered concrete steps of a tinted-glass office building. Covering the steps are the remains of our breakfast — empty Diet Coke bottles, salsa packets torn open, newspapers used as burrito wrappers. I’m trying to read yesterday’s La Frontera coverage of the American presidential primaries through spilled salsa and grease stains. Nick is calling out tricks — ollie, heelflip, slide, grind, nosestall — and applauding when the kids don’t kill themselves. He claims to remember all the tricks from something called Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater, one of his favorite videogames growing up.

“I think it’s the Florida primary today,” I say, reading around an oily smear that seeps into a pixilated Hillary Clinton. “And Super Tuesday is coming up next week. That’s when California votes, you know. We could vote too, if we wanted. Although I don’t know how that works for us. We’d probably need absentee ballots or something like that.”

“Who would you vote for?” Nick asks idly.

“Barack Obama. What about you?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Seriously? Or don’t you want to be pinned down?”

He kicks at a pebble, sheepish and annoyed. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

Maybe Nick hasn’t given it much thought, but I have — usually while the scanner was digesting another sheet feeder of documents. I made lists of the candidates’ strengths and weaknesses, culling information from American web sites and San Diego TV news. There isn’t much local media coverage in Tijuana. “It’s kinda weird, experiencing the presidential race from a foreign country. It makes everything seem so, so…”

“Far away?”

“Yeah! That’s it. Far away, even though it’s right across the border.”

Nick snatches the newspaper away from me, gathering our trash. In a burst of energy he leaps down the steps, runs over to a garbage can, and races back up to me. His shadow stretches in parallel with mine, but panting slightly and topped with the outline of a Kangol hat. He bounces his weight from one hiking boot to the other and back again, communicating his sudden impatience. Time to hurry up and go.

I trail after him, carefully navigating the descent to the plaza. These wedgie sandals magnify every concrete step into an ankle-threatening cliff. Worse, I have a rapt audience. You’d think these Mexican kids have never seen a freakishly tall gringa with a crooked eye before. One nino even forgets about his skateboard, which drifts across the plaza and clatters into the street. “Everyone can just stop looking now!” I say crossly, when my unpainted toenails finally reach the plaza pavers.

“That was pretty goddamn breathtaking,” Nick grins, slipping an arm around my waist. “You looked like Miss Universe coming down those steps.”

“Oh stop. You’re just saying that because you know I hate to be the center of attention.”

“Beats admitting that we were waiting for you to trip and fall.”

“You are such a meanie! Did you hear me? Meanie.” I elbow him without much force. He’s hugging me close as we walk, falling into our usual rhythm. I’m probably the only girl in Tijuana with legs long enough to match his stride. Just knowing it makes my height more bearable.

We stroll down the glassy arroyo of office buildings that is Avenida Ocampo, a border odd couple turning heads. Whole buses of people watch our progress. Street vendors wave us toward their carts, brandishing food and beverages and merchandise. The occasional panhandler rushes us with outstretched palms and a desperate begging face. Nick is going hard beneath the shadows of his hatbrim. The contours of his face are knit together angrily, a look he brandishes like a battering ram.

“Where are we going?” I ask after a while.

“Humberto’s. I feel like getting drunk.”

Say what — ? Astonished, I turn to look at him…and forget to pay attention to the treacherous footing. My wedgie sandals hit an uneven spot, don’t trip Nooshin don’t trip, but it’s too late. Hands thrown out I sprawl across the sidewalk, skinning my palms.

A strong grip lifts me to my feet. “Are you okay?” Nick asks, all the anger in his face suddenly replaced with concern.

“Yeah. I think so.” I’m trying to be tough, even though my palms are bleeding a little. I wipe them on the thighs of my jeans, glancing down malevolently at my high-heeled footwear. “I’ll never get used to walking in these stupid sandals.”

“You didn’t have to wear them, you know. You could’ve worn your Nikes instead.”

“I don’t wear them because I like them. I wear them because you like them! At least Saman — ” The words catch in my throat. I can’t believe what I was about to say.

Nick’s arms fall away. “At least Saman…what?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Tell me. I said tell me.”

“He never cared what I wore. I never had to dress up for him.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” Nick is starting to laugh, a sad and disbelieving noise. His hat swallows up his face as he gazes down my body — flat chest, boy hips and butt, stick-person legs. “Maybe I’m just a sexist pig, but I think you look fucking hot in those high heels.”

“Even if I break my neck wearing them?”

“Now I really feel like getting drunk.” He marches away.

I stride with exaggerated caution, trying to keep up with him. It’s not easy. The sidewalk is a typical Tijuana obstacle course of potholes and concrete heaves and spilled garbage. “Why do you want to get drunk, anyway?”

No response from Nick. His profile is glacial.

I manage to check my runner’s watch, the oversized digits slanting at me. “It’s…8:32. In the morning, I might add. A little early to get drunk, don’t you think?”

Still no response. He grabs my elbow, jaywalking through a gap in traffic. Tailpipe haze boils up like fog. A horn begins honking. He bangs on the hood jutting toward us. The honking stops — and more importantly, so does the car it belongs to. We make it to the other side of the avenue.

“What’s the matter, Nick?”

Finally a sideways glance. My plaintive tone has reached him. But his icy blue eyes give away nothing.

Humberto’s is tucked into an executive hotel. We arrive at the portico, a pale stucco arch flanked by fan palms. Rising behind is a four-story structure of matching pale stucco. Columns of picture windows are divided by exterior sconce lighting. A reflecting pool and garden curve around one side of the hotel. The other side is dominated by a parking garage.

“I don’t know why you like this place,” I complain as we approach the bellhop. “No one ever comes here.”

“That’s why I like it. Because nobody ever comes here.” Nick pushes his Kangol hat back on his head and dials up his smile to 10. The bellhop melts into a toadying figure, ushering us into the hotel. We’re Americans, after all. An unkind word to the hotel manager and the bellhop would be selling chiclets in the street.

I’ve only been to Humberto’s a couple times. It always seems less like a bar/restaurant and more like an afterthought. The entrance is at the back of the lobby, hidden behind pillars, almost invisible from the front desk and elevators. Inside is a crampy L-shaped space. The inside of the L is a right-angle bar, with barstools tucked under the marble countertop. The outside of the L is four-person booths with votive candles flickering on their tables. Things hang on the wall, but the lighting is so dark you can’t tell what they are.

As usual there are more waitstaff than patrons. Nick pauses to order mimosas — in raw form. The bartender puts a dusty bottle and plastic container on the bar. Nick hands over colorful Mexican money, then grabs the champagne and orange juice and two glassware flutes. I follow him toward the stairs, a tiled ascent to an oaken door with wrought iron hinges. It opens, painting him in stark light, then closes again.

And opens again, as he holds the door for me. Glaring sunlight floods the stairwell. I’m momentarily blinded and disoriented. I feel my way up the rest of the stairs.

Humberto’s balcony is a rectangle of pebbled concrete. Patio furniture is arranged into seating areas and shaded by potted palms. A metal railing guards the steep drop-off to the reflecting pool and garden below. Our only company is a businessman chatting on a cellphone in Spanish. Nick chooses the table farthest away, folding himself into a patio chair and kicking up his boots on the railing.

I beat him to the champagne and orange juice, pouring myself a non-alcoholic drink. But I mix a mimosa for him.

He sighs in the general direction of the Pacific. “It’s supposed to be 3:2.”

“What?”

“You made it 1:1. Equal amounts of champagne and orange juice. A mimosa is supposed to be mostly champagne. 3:2 ratio.”

I can feel my brow scrunching up. “And I would know this…how?”

“You know it now.” Nick drains his entire flute in a single gulp, then extends it to me. “Try making it 3:2 this time.”

I reach over to pour the ingredients in right proportion. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Getting drunk.”

“That’s my fucking business. Not yours.” He pours the mimosa down his throat, flashing three days of stubble. “You’re the one who doesn’t get drunk. You never even dressed up for your husband.”

“Are you already going to use that against me?”

Nick’s face is glazed into a mask. His champagne flute is empty and dangling from his right hand. “Just mix me another, alright?”

“Mix it yourself.” I lean back, folding my arms across the Gap logo of my hoodie. “Does this have anything to do with you meeting, um…what’s his name? That creepy old guy who leased you the house? Mr. Sed-something?”

“Sedesco.” He grabs the bottle of champagne, tilting it against his lips. “Sedesco is going to watch our house while we’re gone. Well, watch — and use. That’s the trade-off.”

“What do you mean? What’s he going to do with it?”

“He’s fucking around behind his girlfriend’s back. Using our house will save him the cost of renting a hotel room.”

“You mean…Sedesco and some woman…in our bed? Ewwww!” I’m so repulsed that I almost vomit up my orange juice and the breakfast before it. “How could you?”

“Because somebody needs to keep an eye on the house while we’re gone. Otherwise it’ll get robbed, guaranteed. This way our house gets watched, and we don’t have to pay a peso for it.”

“I hate Mexico.” I say it with such violence that my hands ball into tiny ineffectual fists.

Nick drains the champagne bottle and clangs it onto the table. “You don’t hate Mexico. You hate the way Mexico makes you feel.”

And he’s right. I hate my relief that it isn’t me slaving away in a maquiladora, piecing together a home of scraps, subsisting on $7 a day. I hate my guilt every time I ignore a begging man or woman or child. But most of all, I hate my powerlessness. This is a place that renders you powerless to even feel better, because there’s no better here. There’s only worse.

“You get used to it after a while,” he’s saying. “You have to.”

“I’ve only been living here for a month. I’m not used to it yet. I’ll probably never get used to it.”

We’re lost in an awkward pause that lingers into discomfort. Beneath us the reflecting pool and garden is noisy with a maintenance crew. Passenger jets rumble into the cobalt sky from our neighborhood. A salty breeze is stirring my bangs. I’m miserable looking at Nick’s stoic profile, and past him the 6th-largest city in Mexico. Tijuana is a liquid cityscape of tears, deeper underwater with every pang of my heart.