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I look at the time, wondering if it’s late, but it’s only two, which is normally Spanish lunchtime. I wonder if she meant that she hadn’t eaten all day, or all week. She’s never been much of an eater, but she has a sweet tooth. She indulges in her salad as if it’s the best meal in the world. She’s humming between each mouthful, and just attacking it as if her life depends on it.
“Was it good?”
She shrugs. “So-so. I wonder when the hamburger will get here. A salad isn’t really a meal.”
“No. It’s a starter.”
“But some have it as a main meal.”
“But you didn’t. You had it as a starter,” I point out.
She jumps up and I worry that I’ve antagonized her so much that she’s ready to leave, but then I see her waving her arms and complaining about waiting so long for the main meal and if she needs to go into the kitchen and prepare the burger herself.
Voices are raised and an uptight Leticia returns to the table. I wish she did go into the kitchen and just made her own burger. I don’t even think the way she’s eating that she would wait for it to cook. I have visions of her putting the raw meat in her mouth.
“Are you going to eat it? If not then, I’ll just eat it,” she says after devouring the remaining bread on the table.
I hand it over to her, worried that if I don’t then she’ll use the knife and fork she’s waving in her hand and just start eating me.
“¿Qué?” she snaps, and I shake my head.
“I told you that I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Are you sure you’ve eaten this month?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think them through. I cringe, because of the way she’s looking at me right now.
“Diego!”
“Leticia,” I reply, seeing as we’re playing this name-calling game.
She pops my remaining salad in her mouth, and then her burger arrives at the table. She rolls her eyes, and then I hold back eating my lasagna. I don’t think the double burger and fries she has on her plate is going to be enough.
Then she folds her arms. “I don’t feel like it anymore. I’m full.”
Really?
“Leticia, I’ve never seen you like this.”
She starts to cry, and then I can’t help but go to her side and comfort her.
“What’s up,mi cariño? What’s wrong?”
“Estoy embarazada2.”
I think maybe my ears are playing tricks on me. Because for some reason I think she says that she’s pregnant.
“And you’re crying. Or am I not the father?”
She breaks away from me, and then she punches my arm.
“Yes, you’re the father.”
My heart feels as if it’s beating out of my chest. I’m going to be a dad. It’s as if the universe made me change, made me want to be a better person for a reason, and she’s it.
I lift her up in the air, and then I swing her around.
“Diego, no. I’ll be sick.”
I put her down and then I squeeze her. What I feel is a little too tight.
