With that remark, albeit it was made in jest, Miguel privately nursed the notion Al might think he was putting him off. It wasn't likely his gaze at Cindy's window had gone unnoticed, though Al had shown restraint (an equally unlikely mercy) in forgoing a comment.
Mierda, his toes were ready to fall off! As he stepped into the house, heat swirled around him and coaxed life back into his face and stiffened joints. His forehead was taking on that dull, deep ache signifying a cold. How his mother used to fuss at him, on the rare occasions bitter winter air pressed down on them, and when he was still small and innocent enough to deserve her affection, whenever he protested being swaddled in hats and layers.
'Ma, I look like an egg wrapped in bubble wrap!'
...His nose felt like a popsicle.
At the foot of the stairs, Miguel touched the banister before forcing his body upwards and on. The wood buried under the layers of carpet and padding answered in creaks the pressure and release.
Upstairs was noticeably warmer; only fraction but noticeable nonetheless, with the landing marking the threshold of another vale, a point of progression. — None of the smells, overpowering at first then waning slightly, were familiar to him, no more than he was familiar to the house, a tourist; but this scene felt slightly off-axis, uncharted yet throwing an echo down the tunnel of nebulous recollection. He might've dreamed about it, months ago, this moment, the colors of the walls, the plan of the hall, the shade of the carpet—
It wasn't complaint but surprise that made him spin and clap a hand over his eyes with as much respect and shame as he felt capable of conveying. The shock activated his muscle memory and he reflexively but sloppily signed the Cross over himself.
"Ohmyfuckinggodimsosorryihadnoideayouwere—Christ, Cindy!"
Shielding his eyes still and restoring to Cindy some much needed modesty, Miguel hurried past in the direction of refuge, felt the wall for the door then shut it. Lightheaded, rooted in the middle of the room, he blessed himself again while an old Catholic prayer stirred on his tongue in Spanish, then he put a hand on his hip and scrubbed his nose. His heartbeat pumped and fluttered in his ears, smothering all other sound, dulling all other senses. Why? Why was she naked as her birthday with guests around?! Not that she'd call him one, but really, technically—and it was her house, yes, but...
Pivoting and flopping onto the bed, springs squeaking under impact, Miguel pinched his nose bridge again as he lay sprawled in the classic pose of ignorance lost and patience tested (though not truly). Air crackled behind his nose and a wheeze pushed up from deep in his belly. He wiped his palm over his face and sighed, then he touched it again, this time moving both sets of fingertips to different points. Good. It wasn't scuttling around the floor, but it was hot enough to fry an egg.
To Cindy's credit (and, he supposed, in testament to his own chivalry), he hadn't seen much. Wet hair, undoubtedly. Flesh, irrevocably. As of late, he'd noticed with himself he wasn't much for looking people in the face unless they spoke to him or he to them, so his eyes had already been directed elsewhere, but as soon as she stepped in front of him, they went to her shoulders then zipped down to her thighs—and they'd almost collided. That was enough. That was more skin than she'd ever shown in his presence, and it was only at times of urgency, of wisdom or serendipity, that Miguel deigned any credence to God's existence, for at least Cindy had the discretion to grab a towel instead of hazarding to cross the hall completely bare (again, it was, after all, her house, her prerogative); yet at the same time, a twinge of guilt nipped at him for how he hurried away. It must've seemed to her repulsion or irritation, particularly with that final exclamation. Perhaps he owed to her vanity to be at least a little pleased, but how could he apologize without embarrassing her again?
For a few minutes, Miguel languished there on the bed then rose and pulled his hoodie over his head.
At the very least, he'd take his clothes to the bathroom with him.