It’s going to be a real slog today. Lex is in the hospital with a bad case of punch-in-the-face and my supersonic hearing isn’t picking up so much as a mewing kitten. Good lord, it’s 8am, I can’t just sleep all day. Doesn’t matter that it’s Memorial Day weekend. Better shower now, or the day will be lost to the villainy of laziness.
I would have sat at home thinking of how to rephrase things. I would have cleaned the apartment or swept the front stoop or made some vegetarian pasta. Johnny had taken a part-time job at the Children’s Museum and it was the first Saturday I’d been without him in months. I’d recently taken to confessing my love for him and he always talked me out of it, shrugging it off with cheap vodka and drawn out chess games.a
Augusto’s daughter dragged me out that day. Augusto had made his signature sangria and taken to the guitar. The back yard was full of new and old friends, each proud for knowing the charismatic guitarist and singer. His daughters were no less proud, laughing and performing their palmas loudly so as to correct the aimless clapping of rhythmless gringos.
He didn’t read the menu, just opened up to the page where the enchilada plate was and read the description. He loves this dish, loves it with green and red chile, loves the rice and beans, and loves to read these ingredients like a poem.
His reading is foreplay and that he does as much in front of me, I can only interpret as pre-coital. This evening we discuss drinking and a paper he’s working on concerning heart function. Perhaps he doesn’t remember that he told me about his own weak heart last summer. It was a broiling night and we were drunkenly passing by an apple tree. He wrapped his fist around its slim trunk as he spoke. I found I loved him in that moment.