​Dim kitchen

Hey, I love our dimly lit kitchen. It’s probably because we’re doing pretty shitty right now, that you’re not turning the lights as often and losing my job isn’t making this much fun. I loved working at the bakery. Though it was going to happen sooner or later. I can never shut my fucking mouth. Baby, I loved it, I loved it there so much, and as you lightly coo at me, peppering my head with kisses, I whimper.

“Can you tell me why?” Your voice whispers into my burning ears. With that question, my sobbing grows louder, I sound like a-a ghost. Maximilliano, you idiot. I love that about you, but right now I don’t even want to think about it.

Doesn’t stop me from doing so. So I start. “You remember my boss Ana-Lucia?”

“La rubia de ojos cafe, verdad?” (the blonde with blue eyes?) he recalled her.

“Esa misma,” (that same one).

“Well, what happened, amore? No, puedo entender, si no me dices nada,” (I can’t understand, if you don’t tell me anything,).

“Max, estaba por la entrada, esa bruja me espero afuera, para darme las noticias,” (Max, she was by the entrance, that witch was waiting for me outside, to give me the news).

“Well, what did she say to have you coming back here like a storm?”

“She said the customers were complaining about my face, I was not smiling at them and then others were complaining estupideces, that I was trying to steal their stupid husbands,” (crap).

“¿Por eso te despidieron? Qué tonteria,” (That’s why they fired you? What nonsense,). His strong arms held me softly.

“Max, I’m trying, pero no puedo con esto, soy una mierda,” I cry into his shirt. (But I can’t with this, I’m shit).

“Look Esme, this is just a temporary thing okay? Mirame, mirame, we’re going to get out of this, my cousin Susie told me that you’re more than welcome to work at her bodega,” (look at me, look at me,). He gently wipes my tears, pressing his forehead against mine.

“You’re working hard enough, Ana-Lucia puede comer mierda, look I’ll talk to Susie and we can smooth things out with your school schedule,” (can eat shit) He offered, though knowing him he was going to make sure Susie would give me that job.

It hadn’t been long since we moved in together. We had been doing our best to work out our situation. Mother and father hadn’t wanted me to see Maximillian because he was working construction. They think I’ll throw my education for love. Yet here I am, a third year in college doing as best as I can. This job was better than the previous one, and I worked for my uncle’s mechanic shop. Though I quit because his customers were getting far too friendly with me.

He told me to knock it off and consider dating one of them because they seemed like better prospects when compared to my Max. I told Max that I quit because it was boring, if he knew the actual reason, bueno ni lo quiero imaginar, (well, I don’t want to imagine).

While he kisses my curls the sound of the screeching coffee pot reminds of our day. heading over to the stove he grabs the pot and prepares his famous Cuban coffee.

“Listen to me Esme, work has been slow only because of the contractors, I’ll be set by next week, okay? and don’t think about anything unimportant, you have school, and that pretty paper you’ll eventually have to prove your parents wrong,”

“It’s not about that,”

“Yo se mi vida,” (I know my love)

“Quiero que te queiran,” (I want them to love you,)

“I’m fine with this, you love me and that’s what counts,” Max reassures me.

“Max, I need them too,” I admitted.

“I know amore, I know, but this can’t exactly be fixed over coffee and what is it that they eat in your country again?” His soft voice now jovial. The small smile that came to my face as he used the word amore soothed me. The word itself was Italian and Central America adopted it through the Italian Diaspora. I knew for a fact that I didn’t have an ounce of Italian blood in my veins even so it was pretty cool that we had a word designated to our partners that sounded softer than the typical amor. At least that’s how I perceived it.

“Salpora’s” (Rice bread), I laugh at him. His gaze now focused on my smile.

“Exactly, once they find out you lost this job they’ll say its my fault, and our heavenly father knows I’m being blamed unjustly, at least this time I won’t be there to hear them call me a communist,” He joked. Sighing, I couldn’t help the laughter that erupted. Max always found a way to poke fun of the communist party Cuba, aware that that was the first thing people thought of when he mentioned his nationality. They assumed he was part of the communist party just for being Cuban. How outdated. I know they would hate to be called uneducated just because we’re Honduran.

As he sets down our mugs on the table, he motions me forward with a wave of his hand. Following his lead he takes a seat and sets me on his lap.

“Esme, just breathe, it’s saturday, now you can rest, ya que esa hija de puta te dejo ir, and instead we think about how to better occupy our time, okay?” (now that, that daughter of a bitch let you go,) he kissed my cheek loudly. Sighing, I just nodded. His accent making me laugh once more, he sounded so righteous or serious when speaking spanish.

We’d get through this like we’ve been doing. And I don’t mind the dimly lit kitchen. I think it sets a romantic mood. Although, I don’t want to tell him, today is Saturday and who knows what’s going in that head of his.