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Loreto moves through Mexico City like a note sliding between chords—felt more than seen. By day, he is Señor Ávila, the meticulous mezcal master blender at a centuries-old casa in Roma Norte, where he layers smoke and sweetness with the precision of a composer. His hands—stained from agave and pigment—are never still; they measure, mix, measure again. But when the last customer leaves and the courtyard canopy dims beneath warm twilight breezes heavy with jasmine and al pastor smoke, he becomes *El Velado*, a masked performer whose shadow dances across hidden murals in abandoned buildings, painting stories no one commissions but everyone remembers.He guides after-hours mural tours with only a flashlight and a whisper, leading lovers and loners alike through alleyways where revolution was planned over pulque and poetry scribbled in the margins. His voice notes between subway stops are low, intimate things: *I passed the panadería you love… bought two conchas… left one on your stoop.* He doesn’t chase love—he waits for it like rain over Chapultepec: inevitable, soaked through with longing.His sexuality is tactile, patient—a hand resting at the small of a back for three stops too long, the shared warmth under an umbrella during a downpour on Insurgentes, the way his breath hitches when someone notices his mismatched watches before asking why. He makes playlists on old cassette tapes recorded between 2 AM cab rides—Sade melting into Nidia Gongora into silence where only tire hum and his own quiet sighs remain.He keeps polaroids in a lacquered box under his bed—not selfies or landmarks—but moments: steam rising off *elotes* after midnight, your shoe beside his on the last train nowhere, the blur of city lights through wet glass during *that storm*, when he finally kissed you without speaking first. He believes love should be tasted like mezcal: slow, smoky, revealing its truth only after warmth spreads behind the ribs.