— What’s the matter, hon? Frog in your throat?
Take a sip of water.
I find that cough suspicious. Cold. Phlegm. No. Ahem-ahem. Your face turns red. Whenever Jabalí cleared his throat, he was pulling some kind of fast one. If there was a cough, there was a lie.
— I have to leave today—he’d say. Ahem. Department meetings. Ahem. You know how it is. Ahem. Wish you could come along. Ahem. But they’re professors.
Love affairs. Sneaking around with that little bitch of his. I knew he was lying, but I enjoyed playing along, knowing he was lying. But now, ahem, what’s this new little cough about? We’re sitting in the booth and, I swear, I’m totally cool with the mariachis and the candles.
— What should I order, chipo?
— Whatever you want, chipa.
— I don’t know if I should get the gaucho steak or the trio dynamico.
— Get whatever you want, chipa. What should I get?
— Whatever you want, chipo.
— Here comes the waitress.
— Let her wait. We haven’t decided yet.
— I know what I want: the gaucho.
— Ahem, but it comes with garlic bread and fries. Ahem. You are on a diet. Let me see if I have enough to cover it. Sorry. Ahem. You’ll have it next time. Or you’ll have to select between the steak or the piña colada.
— Piña colada, then.
— But, you understand, we’ll have to share the piña colada.
— Hurry up, please, it’s time.
— Just a moment, please. We haven’t made up our minds. For the time being, please, ahem, bring the lady a piña colada.
— Just one?
— Yes, with two straws, and for me, ahem, a frosty glass of tap water with crushed ice, no cubes. You see, ahem, if you hadn’t ordered the piña colada, we could have had two dishes. Now, ahem, I’m running short. Plus the tip. I need a better job. Eating out every night. Did I send out my student loan payments last week?
— I told you to.
— Or is it this week? Wait, I made a deposit last week, which means no problem, it’s due next week.
— Have you decided what you want?
— I’ll have the steak.
— Ahem, no, we’ll have fajitas instead. It’s the same beef, but we can share fajitas.
— Yes, fajitas, thank you.
— How about another drink?
— Just water, please, and the bill. How much do I leave for a tip? 15 % plus tax. Do you know if I paid the credit cards? Kika, we must stop eating out. You should learn how to cook. It would be so much healthier, and we would save so much time and money.
Why take me out only to leave me hungry, unsatisfied? I can’t order what I want from the menu. This is impotence, frustration. Your frustration, your indecision. Look what you’ve done to my silverware. Hands off, I told you. Why don’t you use the set you stole from my brother? My grandmother’s silverware is sacred. I want to have memories and cause for respect. If I have no silver, they respect me less, and if I have no children, even less and less. You have to have something to pass down, so they come around and take care of you when you’re old. They’re precious. You have to take care of them.
— I wanted to surprise you, but you didn’t even notice.
— You promised me you wouldn’t use them again except for special occasions.
— A champagne dinner for two to celebrate the publication of the book by Yale. You didn’t even notice the silver then, when you were supposed to, you went ahead and called Mona and just talked and devoured without tasting the meat. Did you even notice that I left the table?
— I’m sorry. Listen, I’m sorry. Don’t make me feel guilty.
— Did you notice how tender the fillet was?
— I’m sorry. But today I woke up, and breakfast is served on the table, you are not there, and I look at the bagel with cheese, and I see my silver fork tarnished. What? My silver used for bagels? You don’t respect my wishes. You do whatever you please. Whatever you damn well please.
— You said you weren’t hungry, then you asked for more.
— Cheese.
— Why didn’t you tell me? I could have cooked you rice and beans.
— Okay.
— Rice and beans?
— You call that rice? It was soup and beans.
— That’s what you get.
— I told you to do it right next time. But I didn’t tell you to dump it out. I was hungry, and in a minute my rice and beans disappeared.
— I wanted it.
— You had it.
— I’m hungry.
— Tough luck.
— Why do you tantalize me and leave me panging? Then for a little smack in the head, you fall down and play dead at my feet.
— It was supposed to be a coma.
— I don’t want to talk to you.
— My lungs were pumping, and my heart was beating.
— I took you for dead. Not one second, not two, not three. Agony was climbing inside my head. Will I ever regain my self-control? Will I ever find peace of mind again? I wasn’t outside myself. I wasn’t inside myself. I had left myself. Then you bellied up with a grin on your fat face. And I got so angry, I ran out, cold as it was, without a coat. I told you:
— Now it’s really over. Now I really got your number. Don’t think I didn’t get it this time.
I was trying to pull myself together. I didn’t want to get lost, but I didn’t want to ever see your face again.
— You can keep everything. All I want is my dignity.
I can always start over, another day, another book. I didn’t want to come back. I had no keys, no money, no place to go. I could have stayed in the Plaza. I could have, should have, but would have lost my mind if I didn’t force myself to ring the bell, with my chin up, march inside, and shut myself in my room. I didn’t want to talk to you ever again. But here I am. Ding-dong.
— Sorry.
— No more pardons. I’m sick and tired of you, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.
— Okay. I won’t talk.
— But you continue.
— And you.
— Did you send out the manuscript?
— No, but I wrote the query letters to the editors.
— You see how irresponsible you are.
— I have my pace.
— You promised by Tuesday. It’s Thursday. What happened?
— What time have I had? Work absorbs my days, then your friends, my nights.
— Had you an iota of responsibility, you’d set priorities, which include, according to your promises, sending out the manuscript. You had the whole weekend, but no, you were exhausted. I understood. I let you sleep. If my friends invite me to dinner, you don’t have to tag along if you have a deadline. But deadlines strike no fear of death. You skip over them with a nonchalant shrug that staggers me. I need to party. Why should I deprive myself? But when I ask you: