look up to see a big burly Spanish man, dressed in jogging gear, staring at me in horror.
He starts mumbling something in Spanish that might be an apology, or it could be that he’s blaming me for running into him. It’s hard to tell.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I tell him, waving my hands like I’m making an X, before I go to bend down and pick up my phone.
Just as he does the same.
Bam.
Our heads knock into each other, and we both stumble back a bit.
I’m laughing, because it’s just so silly and embarrassing and funny, and he’s laughing too.
“Now this would be a serious meet-cute,” I tell him, stepping back as he quickly ducks down to get both phones.
“A meet-cute?” he repeats, handing my phone back to me.
“Yeah a…oh sorry. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Yes, I know, you’ve said that twice already,” he says.
“Oh, you speak English,” I say, feeling sillier by the moment. “I thought you were just repeating it back to me.”
He’s a pretty cute guy. Maybe a few years older than me, some grey hair at the temples, dark skin, kind eyes. “I do speak English; I just don’t know what a meet-cute is. Is your phone okay?”
I glance at it and nod. “No cracks.”
“I’m not so lucky,” he says, showing me his. It’s a Google phone with a crack in the corner.
“Well, it’s not an iPhone, that’s your first problem,” I tell him.
“Very funny. I suppose that was my fault for running into you.”
“I should have been watching where I was going.” I pause, feeling bad. “I can help pay for that screen if you want.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.” He gives me an unsure smile. “But, if you want to learn Spanish, I might be your man.”
I cross my arms, feeling coy that this man is flirting with me. “And who said I needed a man for that?”
“No one. But since you wanted to pay for the screen…”
I laugh. “I said help pay. And how is that making up for it? I break your screen and you have to teach me Spanish?”
“Believe me, it would be my pleasure. Here.” He motions for me to give him my phone. I hesitantly hand it over.
He opens the notepad app and types his phone number. “If you need to practice, give me a call. I’m Sergio, by the way.”
“Okay,” I tell him as he gives my phone back. “Well, nice meeting you, Sergio.”
“Meet-cute, right?”
“Yes. Meet-cute.”
He gives me a little wave and then continues on his way jogging.
I watch him go and then turn around and head back to La Latina. I’m not sure if I’m going to call him or not, but I’m feeling particularly emboldened after running into him. Maybe my mother was right. There are plenty of fish in the sea, plenty of the right men to hook up with, good ones who don’t jeopardize my career.
I just have to keep my eyes open.
Or not.
Otherwise, I won’t bump into them.
The next day I’m silent as Manuel drives me to work, though I find it amusing that he has no idea I pilfered his name when I invented a fake guy.
After the jogging fiasco, I went back to my apartment and spent a good, proper day exploring Madrid. I had lunch at an outdoor café, drank too much sangría, went shopping at Zara and Mango, and spent an hour in an English bookstore. I had dinner by myself at a charming little restaurant by a square where I watched street performers and drank even more sangría. Then I strolled around a bit, watching the world go by.
I tried to conjure up that independent woman I once was, the one I know is buried inside me. I tried to bring her out, to make being single and alone an adventure. After all, when you’re recently divorced you’re supposed to take the time to do all the things you weren’t able to do when you were coupled up.
But it just sort of made me sad.
I saw couples.
I saw families.
And when I saw pregnant women and babies, I got even sadder, the ache inside me returning.
Then I started getting angry at myself for being so sad.
I drank more wine.
A stupid amount.
I went to a bar hoping I could find someone, anyone to hook up with. The more random, the better. I didn’t care if I got fucked in a dirty bathroom or in the alley with the garbage, I just needed someone to fuck these