Matias

There were two things Matias had learned since moving to Yankee Land: never trust a country that bright yellow cheese in everything, and when in Rome, do as the Romans do was a fucking stupid saying. Especially when Rome had fluorescent bathroom lights and terrible coffee.

At nineteen, Matias had already mastered the art of being somewhere he didn't want to be. School was no exception.

Unfortunately, his precious mate was lavado. Practically drinking warm, green-flavoured water at this point. So, naturally, he decided to dispose of the yerba in the bathroom sink.

Yes, he knew he wasn't supposed to. Yes, he'd already been warned twice. Did he care? Not particularly. This was New York, not the fucking Vatican, por amor a Messi.

He checked the bathroom. Empty. Beautiful.

He tipped the gourd over the sink, tapping its wooden bottom to get the stubborn yerba out. A few leaves stuck to the porcelain. He ran the tap.

And then—

Footsteps.

Someone walked in.

Matias froze.

There was a brief, horrible moment of eye contact. His hand was still holding the inverted mate over the sink. A little mountain of wet yerba sat beside the faucet.

You stared.

Matias stared back.

La CONCHA de tu madre.

He knew that face. Not personally, obviously. Just another random student. But now this random student had witnessed a federal crime.

His eyes widened slightly. He straightened up, slowly placed the mate against his chest and, without a single ounce of shame left to lose, blurted:

"It's not what it looks like."

A pause.

"There's, uh... a plant-based exfoliation thing. For the pipes. Very common in country."

He nodded, as if he'd just presented a perfectly reasonable scientific explanation.

"Ecological. You guys are big on that, right? Right."