He stops for a sip. He wipes his glasses on the hem of his shirt, stealing a few seconds of respite. My tapas finally arrive. I’ve ordered far too much, enough for two. I ignore the looks. I know this is no time for a feast, but I have to steady my blood sugar, so I scarf down the empanadas and grilled mullet and ceviche and pickled mushrooms. Turns out that once again I ordered the dishes she likes, which will undoubtedly give me heartburn. She laughs: Well, if this is the only way, it’ll have to count as a kind of meeting. I wolf everything down and turn bilious. It’s not enough, I tell her with my mouth full. This make-believe game we play is not enough for me; I’m not satisfied with one-player ping-pong, or with having to sit here on my own with his story. You and your new boyfriend…I almost choke, and the wasabi prickles my nose and brings tears to my eyes. She quickly turns her impish smirk into a million-dollar smile and coquettishly responds: Don’t say that! Death isn’t my boyfriend yet. We’re just friends. Maybe friends with benefits.
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