Online love dating in dominica
(they went to her), your mother won’t speak to you (she liked the fiancée more than she liked you), and you’re feeling terribly guilty and terribly alone.
Kisses you at the door as she leaves; it all feels too chaste to you, too lacking in promise. Two years later, you will run into her in Dudley Square but she will pretend not to recognize you, and you won’t force the issue.
You put your lips against the baby’s stomach and blow. She had him with a banilejo who had four other kids with four other women. You and Noemi fall into a little pattern: on Sunday you take her out to dinner—she doesn’t eat anything remotely adventurous, so it’s always Italian—and then she stays the night. Three Sundays in a row she sleeps over, and three Sundays in a row nada. This is your last chance, but instead of begging for mercy you bark, Fine. After you pull yourself together, you tell Elvis, I think I need a break from the bitches. You pass each other a couple of times a week, and she’s a pleasure to watch, a gazelle, really—what economy, what gait, and what an amazing fucking cuerpazo.
Your ex never wanted kids, but toward the end she made you get a sperm test, just in case she decided to change her mind. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he’ll be dropping an album if she’s not careful. Sunday is her one day off—the Five-Baby Father watches Justin that day, or, rather, he and his new girlfriend watch Justin that day. Not sweet at all, because Noemi didn’t give it to you! On whether you’re planning to give me ass anytime soon. You know as soon as you say it that you just buried yourself. Then she says, Let me get off this phone before I say something you won’t like. Even these little breakups suck, because they send you right back to thinking about the ex. This time you spend six months wallowing in it before you return to the world. By winter’s end, you’ve gotten to know all the morning regulars and there’s even this one girl who inspires in you some hope.
On the ride out to the hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple so giddy with love that you almost throw them out of the car.
You start losing your temper with friends, with students, with colleagues. You stop hitting the gym or going out for drinks; you stop shaving or washing your clothes; in fact, you stop doing almost everything. Four years earlier, Elvis had a Humvee blow up on him on a highway outside Baghdad. You have dreams where she’s talking to you like in the old days—in that sweet Spanish of the Cibao, no sign of rage, of disappointment. You stop sleeping, and some nights when you’re drunk you have a wacky impulse to open the window of your fifth-floor apartment and leap down to the street. It really is a long stretch of shit, and then, finally, the madness begins to recede. Only one pair of your jeans fits, and none of your suits. A white grandma screams at you at a traffic light, and you close your eyes until she goes away.
And because love, real love, is not so easily shed.