When You Started Writing Poems in Spanish

4. the quiet sunday coffee runs

The weekend passed like a headache.

I was dragged out by Leo to go clubbing on Saturday night, cementing myself as as one of his 'boring friends' when I refused to go out on Sunday for the second weekend in a row. I asked him if he was trying to make sure I kept my promise of being late on Monday, he said he just wanted to get me laid since I seemed to be going celibate.

I spent Sunday night finishing up some assignments I had been putting off, which would've been normal aside from my bright idea to download a VPN and stay up until three in the morning watching a Toronto Maple Leafs game. It was irresponsible, but I was feeling homesick and the voice of the commentator bursting through my living room was comforting. They ended up losing 4-2, it was worth it.

Meaning that I knew it was my own fault for being a few minutes late on Monday. I needed that five extra minutes of sleep! It assured that I was completely well rested when I turned up to work with an apology coffee for Leo.

"Called it!" he had said, grabbing his coffee eagerly and taking a sip.

I waited for him to finish before mentioning, "And... I ordered it completely in Spanish. Well, I try to do that most times but the cashier said I pronounced it very well."

"Wow," Leo marveled, exaggeratedly, "the bare minimum for living in this country. Impressive."

I rolled my eyes, smiling, and then made my way up stairs to my office, which was still messy from Friday's frantic brainstorming.

The small broom closet of an office felt more like home than my actual apartment. Corkboards and whiteboards on two of the four walls, it was littered with photographs, sticky notes, and loose papers I deemed important enough to stick on my wall. I was also lucky enough to have a window, allowing some natural sunlight into the room during the day and glowing moonlight during the evening. I wasn't the most organized person, observable through my many stacks of files and papers, but I liked to think that I could find anything if I needed it.

I stepped inside, setting my bag onto my desk and collapsing into my chair. Part of me wanted to get a head start on this week's stories, another part of me wanted to read through my interview with Alexia again. My interview with the Barcelona Players. I thought better of it, I couldn't have another close call again, even if it meant I got to relive those moments.

I opened up my laptop and got to work, doing some research of upcoming games and predictions. That was the thing about covering sports, many things were predictable but it was always interesting if you had a passion for it. Writing like this kept me content and financially afloat, even though it lacked the excitement and romanticism of creative writing.

I had tried to focus on poetry for the first few years after graduating, and excitement and romanticism soon turned into instability and frustration. I was proud of myself and the things I had done, but soon I realized that my heart wasn't in it enough to write poetry full time. I took an internship in Toronto before getting a job with BBC, working my way up the ladder until they asked me to kickstart their Spanish project.

Poetry was still present in my life, if it wasn't, I would've never agreed to teaching Alexia about it. I didn't have much time for it, though, most of my writing energy went towards my articles. I wanted my heart to be in it completely this time, which left little room for poetry besides scribbling down spur-of-the-moment lines into a journal I kept with me.

After my breakup, which was only then beginning to feel like it was a year ago, I didn't write many romantic poems. Most of them were about life in the city, how different it was from the cold winters and local diners of Canada. Most-- but not all, as every few months I would buy a bottle of wine and write about love, or how absent it was in my new life. Those nights I would imagine someone else, a different face each time, who would burst into my life and make me forget my ex-girlfriend.