Page 8 of Interpreter

Where’s the tequila?

Why am I suddenly realizing that my entire life here in America is lame? Are other American’s lives lame? Do they live with their gay best friend above a bar that sounds like a strip club?

It does. Felipe shouldn’t have named it after the movie. It’s totally his fault I thought it was like a Chippendales when I first came to Georgia.

At the time I wandered into this fine establishment, I didn’t know anyone, and I had only the money Mami and Abuelita sent with me.

I was tired.

I was broke.

I was a total crybaby, if you must know the truth.

So, I drug my mascara-streaked face into Magic Michelle’s thinking maybe a little dick swinging would cheer me up. I was disappointed. Even though I did see a little drunk dick swinging, it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. Magic Michelle’s—not a strip club—was a karaoke bar for the queens of Madison.

Drag queens, that is.

So, I spent far too much of my savings by washing away my fears with a shit ton of alcohol until Felipe found me, a sobbing mess, upsetting his customers with my tear-laced wails of, “I just wanted to see some dicks swing! Is that too much to ask?”

Coincidentally, two years later, times are scarily the same. This time though, I’m not seeking any dong pendulums, but I still sought out my Pe and his tequila. Thankfully no customers were horrified due to it being a Monday night. Mondays are slow, so Felipe closes the bar. Thank heavens. Who knows how this night would have turned out had it been open?

“You’re right,” I mumble into Felipe’s shirt. It’s a good shirt too. He’ll have a nightmare of a time getting my mascara stains out of it. “I don’t want to marry you. You snore, and you’re stingy with the umbrella.”

One hundred percent true.

I made that mistake once when Felipe said we could “share” his umbrella during a torrential downpour. Basically that translated into him staying dry and me getting soaked when he ran faster than I could. Felipe is not a sharer, essentially.

Except for his apartment.

Well, no. Scratch that. He locks me out on the regular with lies about me going downstairs to get us wine when we have company, only for me to return and be met with a locked door and a twenty-dollar bill sliding through the crack as his way of an apology.

Felipe’s chest rumbles under mine. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’ll marry your ass if I have to, Mami.”

Why are we friends, again? Did I say anything in that story about us meeting that made you think Pe was a keeper? Yeah, I didn’t think so. All I can add is that he really does care about me and he’s always been here for me, even if I want to shove him in front of a bus from time to time.

I wipe my nose on Felipe’s shirt. We all agree he deserves it, right?

“That was the worst friend-posal I’ve ever heard.”

It’s sweet though.

But I’m not a cockblocker. If that means getting my ass on a plane back to Costa Rica at the end of the year, I will. I wouldn’t stand in the way of Felipe and Marcus’s happiness—even if they do break up every Friday.

Felipe tucks me into his side.

“Come on, Mami. I’ll give you a little dong dance before bed tonight. That always makes you feel better, yeah?”

I snort and punch him softly.

He’s not wrong.

“Thanks, Pe.” I hop off the table and tug at the tequila bottle in his hand. “But I think José and I are going to round out our evening in the tub.”

Where there are no witnesses.

Felipe eyes me up and down, probably making sure I’m not suicidal, before he nods.

“I’ll be up later,” he says, hopping down and joining me on the floor. “Don’t drown, okay?”

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