Every day, Mateo carried it in a thin brown paper bag that looked like it had survived too many mornings. Dark stains marked the bottom, and the top was folded with care, as if whoever packed it wanted to make sure nothing spilled, nothing was wasted.
To me, it was an invitation.
During recess, when the courtyard buzzed with noise and movement, I would approach him with an audience already forming. My friends, or rather the people who stood near me, watched eagerly.
I would snatch the bag from his hands and raise it high.
“Let us see what gourmet meal you brought today,” I would announce, my voice loud and sharp. “Maybe another masterpiece from the discount aisle.”
Laughter would burst out, not always genuine, but loud enough to satisfy me. Mateo never resisted. He never shouted. He simply stood there, his face flushing, his eyes shining with unshed tears. I would open the bag, inspect its contents like a judge passing sentence, then toss whatever I found into the nearest trash can.
Sometimes it was a banana with dark spots. Sometimes it was rice wrapped in foil, already cold. Once it was just two slices of plain bread pressed together.