In Another Country

I was staring out the window, thinking about the girl, and all the while the green, lush countryside blended together and passed me by because I was thinking about the girl again.

But that’s all right.  I can always find a way to see the countryside.  The girl is another story.

My lips were tight and my head on the glass and I felt a bit silly.

“Seriously, man,” my friend said to me when I told him, “Take it a little slower.”

But I cannot help the way my mind makes me feel and last night she asked me, “Do you drink much?”

And I said to her with a voice full of sarcasm, “I’m sorry, I thought I told you. I’m a writer,” and I sipped the vodka and ate one of the green olives.

“Yeah, you did.”

I looked at the girl but she did not say anything.  She went off to help someone else.  She spoke English well but when she returned I began speaking Spanish anyway.

“Si, me gusto beber porque yo quiero mata diablo.”

The girl had a very nice sense of humor and a loud Latin laugh, the sounds pleasant rather than obnoxious. When she laughed, I smiled.  Nothing was more appropriate, I told her.

“Eres hermosa cuando sonríes.”

With a wide, playful smile she asked, “¿Algo mas?”

“Tus dientes son como las perlas del mar.”

“Ay!”

I could not remember the Spanish for it so I said in English, “Too corny?”

“Un poquito.”

“¿Pero por qué?  ¿Es verdad, no?”

And we went on with that for a while.  Honestly, I did not care what we spoke about so long as we kept on speaking.

A bit after I said, “Quiero comprar tu cena. ¿Qué piensas?”

The girl took a few seconds before answering but she was looking at me the entire time, reading me.

“Si,” she said, “Usted se queda cerca.”

And then she went off but I saw her later.  And now I’m here in the shuttle and looking at the countryside –  the man next to me concerned about the weight of his bag – but still thinking about the girl and desperately seeking a piece of gum.

 

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