Jan
28
HAHAHA YOU GUYS GUESS WHAT I STUMBLED UPON STORED IN MY PERSONAL CLOUD
at the end of twelfth grade i took a short story writing class one of the first assignments of which was “write a conversation with your writing self.” which, how pretentious does that sound? anyway i’d never and still have never written a short story so i figured, well, my writing self is kind of a flake, and then i figured, well, why not make her the kind of flake who took a cruise and spent the whole time boning some hot dude, and ahaha you guys i can’t believe i turned this in! UNEDITED even the parts that really make me cringe because of how i was eighteen and all (six years ago! !!!!!!), except to take out my real name (that’s what the stars are). i am just dying at my teenage self, i really am. i am so glad i’m enough of an adult to mostly find this funny.
I slurp the last whipped cream out of my small frappucino - I refuse to put up with this tall grande venti maximus gloriosus nonsense - and hear a voice behind me: “That’s a charming noise.”
“You’re late,” I saw without looking up.
“I couldn’t remember if you said Starbucks on ninety-fourth or on ninety-sixth.”
“You could’ve called.”
Isabel sits down opposite me. “My phone’s out of battery.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I say, irritated because I know how she would gloat if I revealed I missed her. “How was the cruise?”
“Incredible. Life-altering. Seriously, hon, best thing that’s ever happened to me. Best thing I’ve ever done.”
“For several thousand daughters and eighteen months of your life it better have been. I hope you brought back pictures.”
“Sure did!” She opens her bag and rummages around, excitement emanating from her tanned face. I peer inside, trying not to be noticed - not that she’s paying much attention to me anyway. I see a fan, some blank postcards, a bottle of perfume she bought only for its cute round shape - she never wears perfume - a tampon, and some trail mix. She unzips an inner pocket and pulls out a stack of pictures which she thrusts across the table at me. “Here.”
I flip through them, expecting to see the wonders of the world in miniature. Instead, one sight greets my eyes. “Isabel. These are all pictures of one guy.”
“I know, isn’t he gorgeous?” Her eyes are wide open behind her cheap sunglasses. “His name’s Alfonso. He’s breaking up with his Spanish girlfriend as we speak. Maybe already, Spain is ahead of our time, right?”
“You hooked up with a Spaniard with a girlfriend on a cruise?”
“He would’ve broken up with her before, but, you know. Communication’s kinda hard on a boat.”
“That’s not the point. You were supposed to be seeing sights.”
“I did!” She grabs the pictures out of my hands and begins showing them to me. “That’s Alfonso in front of a mountain… that’s Alfonso in Singapore… That’s me and Alfonso watching the sunset over the Pacific… That’s… oops, that shouldn’t be in there.” She stuffs the picture in her bag before I can see more than a flash of flesh. She laughs it off, her refusal to be embarrassed still stubbornly in place.
“I can’t believe you saw all those things through the filter of Antonio Banderas here.” I shake my head.
“His name’s Alfonso, and he’s really more of a less Jewish Adrien Brody. Besides, *******, the sex, the sex is - “
This is one of those times I’m glad my cheeks don’t blush. “Isabel, we’re in public, and you’re yelling.”
“I am not yelling,” she says, but she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Seriously, ****, it’s so like. Mmm. God. Words can’t even, you know?”
“Don’t call me ****,” I say; I don’t take kindly to nicknames.
”*******. Seriously. I mean he’s not like American boys, you know? He’s… sensuous.”
“Maybe because he’s… thirty.”
“He just turned twenty-nine a month ago.”
“Isabel, why do you always have to focus on these stupid little things? Why can’t you observe things that are real?”
She glares at me. “Alfonso’s real.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, losing patience. “You’re such a hopeless romantic. There are things beyond sexy Spanish men. God, does he even speak English?”
“Some. But it’s okay, I speak Spanish.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is not,” she bites back, defensively. “I do speak Spanish.”
“Since when?”
“I never said I speak it fluently. Besides, our communication goes so far beyond words.”
“This is what I’m talking about. Words give us meaning. If you can’t put something in words, what’s the point?” I’m mostly frustrated because I don’t know why I’m frustrated.
“Well maybe if you can say all of something in just words, it’s not worth talking about.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The stoner behind the counter announces that Monica’s espresso is ready. Isabel starts up. “Where are you going?” I ask, worried, I’ve ruined something somehow.
She grins. “Just getting a hot chocolate.” She kisses me on the cheek and I smile, confused but reassured. While she’s up, I see a note sticking out of her bag and sneak a look. It reads, in steady cursive, Yo te amo. Love always. There is a sketch of Isabel under the writing. Her face, rendered in charcoal, is more familiar and more exotic than any of the photographs I’ve seen. I study it for a while, then put it back without saying a word.
“You’re late,” I saw without looking up.
“I couldn’t remember if you said Starbucks on ninety-fourth or on ninety-sixth.”
“You could’ve called.”
Isabel sits down opposite me. “My phone’s out of battery.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I say, irritated because I know how she would gloat if I revealed I missed her. “How was the cruise?”
“Incredible. Life-altering. Seriously, hon, best thing that’s ever happened to me. Best thing I’ve ever done.”
“For several thousand daughters and eighteen months of your life it better have been. I hope you brought back pictures.”
“Sure did!” She opens her bag and rummages around, excitement emanating from her tanned face. I peer inside, trying not to be noticed - not that she’s paying much attention to me anyway. I see a fan, some blank postcards, a bottle of perfume she bought only for its cute round shape - she never wears perfume - a tampon, and some trail mix. She unzips an inner pocket and pulls out a stack of pictures which she thrusts across the table at me. “Here.”
I flip through them, expecting to see the wonders of the world in miniature. Instead, one sight greets my eyes. “Isabel. These are all pictures of one guy.”
“I know, isn’t he gorgeous?” Her eyes are wide open behind her cheap sunglasses. “His name’s Alfonso. He’s breaking up with his Spanish girlfriend as we speak. Maybe already, Spain is ahead of our time, right?”
“You hooked up with a Spaniard with a girlfriend on a cruise?”
“He would’ve broken up with her before, but, you know. Communication’s kinda hard on a boat.”
“That’s not the point. You were supposed to be seeing sights.”
“I did!” She grabs the pictures out of my hands and begins showing them to me. “That’s Alfonso in front of a mountain… that’s Alfonso in Singapore… That’s me and Alfonso watching the sunset over the Pacific… That’s… oops, that shouldn’t be in there.” She stuffs the picture in her bag before I can see more than a flash of flesh. She laughs it off, her refusal to be embarrassed still stubbornly in place.
“I can’t believe you saw all those things through the filter of Antonio Banderas here.” I shake my head.
“His name’s Alfonso, and he’s really more of a less Jewish Adrien Brody. Besides, *******, the sex, the sex is - “
This is one of those times I’m glad my cheeks don’t blush. “Isabel, we’re in public, and you’re yelling.”
“I am not yelling,” she says, but she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Seriously, ****, it’s so like. Mmm. God. Words can’t even, you know?”
“Don’t call me ****,” I say; I don’t take kindly to nicknames.
”*******. Seriously. I mean he’s not like American boys, you know? He’s… sensuous.”
“Maybe because he’s… thirty.”
“He just turned twenty-nine a month ago.”
“Isabel, why do you always have to focus on these stupid little things? Why can’t you observe things that are real?”
She glares at me. “Alfonso’s real.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, losing patience. “You’re such a hopeless romantic. There are things beyond sexy Spanish men. God, does he even speak English?”
“Some. But it’s okay, I speak Spanish.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is not,” she bites back, defensively. “I do speak Spanish.”
“Since when?”
“I never said I speak it fluently. Besides, our communication goes so far beyond words.”
“This is what I’m talking about. Words give us meaning. If you can’t put something in words, what’s the point?” I’m mostly frustrated because I don’t know why I’m frustrated.
“Well maybe if you can say all of something in just words, it’s not worth talking about.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The stoner behind the counter announces that Monica’s espresso is ready. Isabel starts up. “Where are you going?” I ask, worried, I’ve ruined something somehow.
She grins. “Just getting a hot chocolate.” She kisses me on the cheek and I smile, confused but reassured. While she’s up, I see a note sticking out of her bag and sneak a look. It reads, in steady cursive, Yo te amo. Love always. There is a sketch of Isabel under the writing. Her face, rendered in charcoal, is more familiar and more exotic than any of the photographs I’ve seen. I study it for a while, then put it back without saying a word.
