Chispa

One of these days I'm going to say something to that delicious dark eyed, warm skinned guy who works in the caf downstairs. I'll pull out all the chispa y espanol I can think of without faltering. He'll raise his brows and smile out the side of his mouth.

We'll talk. We might exchange numbers. I'll notice his bright white teeth, his stud in one ear, the way his smile dimples on only one side. He'll be 32, but look 20, because he's short and from Puerto Rico. We'll exchange awkward looks, awkward phone calls, awkward text messages. He'll ask me to come down at 1 instead of 12:30. He'll be able to walk outside with me through the employee-only side door. Ernesto, Ernesto... I'll breathe. And I'll swirl the blackberry he'll save for me-- he'll hold it out, cupped in both hands-- around on my tongue before squishing it and sucking on the seeds.

We'll listen to vallenato and I'll hate it. I'll ache for bachata, but he won't even know how to dance to it. I'll wink at him when I leave. He'll be washing lunch dishes with the hose. He'll smell like them. He'll smell like the inside of an industrial freezer.

And then one day I'll stop coming to the caf and talking to him.
Becuase he'll come on sneaky and strong, I'll think. Because I'm an American girl, he'll think. Definitively. And what could I want from him except to play around in the kitchen?