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This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
Nacho can feel a fruit fly crawling up his finger. His body is so still, even as he wills it to move, to walk out of the room with everyone else. He can’t. All he can do is stare at Jorge, at Lalo Salamanca.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Lalo says quietly, shrugging, his eyes unmarked slates of black, “I don’t want this to end, Nacho. Indulge me. Call me Jorge for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes. No me importa.”
He turns his face to the TV screen, the mute symbol sliding from corner to corner. James Gandolfini’s mouth is moving, but Lalo is speaking. Smiling that cruel, mocking grin. His eyes slip shut.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the way it is. It’s not the meth,” he snorts, “I dream about you. I think about you all the time. I can’t get excited about any other women. There’s nothing else to say. I love you.”
Or: Lalo joins his family in Albuquerque just before Dog Paulson’s makeshift funeral, and decides to play a little game with the apple of his eye.