Mazatlan's Return: A Decrescendo

I was ticked off because they didn't have mutligrain bagels this morning. The crazy lady from the fourth floor who has bald spots and wears at least six extra pieces of fake hair was trying to tell me that my bagel wasn't getting brown enough. I pulled it out thirty seconds later. It was burnt.
"Stupid bitch," I mumbled. I really was NOT in a good mood.

Then from the kitchen, behind the toaster, came Mazatlan. He winked at me and moved on without staring uncomfortably, illiciting secret smiles from both of us. And I did smile despite myself. Because even though Nestor and I were perfectly happy, I felt like Mazatlan was exactly what he was meant to be. He was a piece of hopeful furniture in my life. He was a little reminder of what I was capable of.

"I don't care about money, Nestor."
"Really? Because it sounds like you do. You are making me feel bad."
"Thats not what I mean. I mean that I will need to make money so that I can prepare my life for you."
"In Costa Rica?"
I grinned and raised my eyebrows. "My only problem with this little equation I have worked out, is being able to work and make enough money to live there."
"You need to learn Spanish, ninita. You will be valuable to everyone if you do. Not just me."
"I'd be valuable if I did that here! Nestor, you have no idea what you are capable of just because you speak two languages. Two WIDELY KNOWN languages."
"You can find work there. It will be easy for you."
"And in time, to come back, all we need to do is say 'Hey, US government! I met this GREAT GUY in Costa Rica!?' and by that time the five year limitations will have run out or been forgotten and you will come back with me and do whatever you want!"
"What about what you said? About children? About a better life?"
"Nestor I want a HAPPY life. And besides, children will be minors. They go wherever I go. I'm an American. As long as you don't pull a Not-Without-My-Daughter, I won't ever have to become Sally Field."
"What?"

I didn't mind so much that Mazatlan had decreased the intensity of his stare. It wasn't even a stare now. It was more like a quick, Bewitched, eyebrow wiggle. It was enough to make me smile and remember that I could live any life I wanted, in a sense. I could be working at a hotel in Managua, or Santo Domingo, or I could teach school in flippin Rockmart, Georgia. But whatever I did, it was going to involve passion. It was going to be real. It was going to be difficult. But aren't all life affirming experiences?