Grapes Upside Down

15. Dulce de Leche

~Madisen~

We eat lonche, just the two of us, with me breaking down in giggles out of the blue every few minutes at the memory of Noah gulping down an entire mug of chocolate ants.

Noah stomps on my foot under the table and confiscates the bread basket.

"Mmm, ¡súper rico!" I imitate him, pointing and laughing. He merely shrugs, though his face is bright with shared amusement.

"It wasn't so bad. I've had worse run-ins with insects and critters while camping or backpacking."

"Oh yeah? I can make you another batch for dessert!"

"Nooo.... I'll pass on sampling any more of your cooking!"

I kick him back under the table.

"You shouldn't have any doubts about me, Noacito." He mocks my earlier assurances in sings-song, with stereotypical girly mannerisms. "Anyone who needs a recipe to mix milk and chocolate together... Your instructions should have specified, 'bug-free chocolate' in the ingredients list."

"Hey! That wasn't my fault! Do you think the ants were inside the package when Graciela bought it, or came from the kitchen once we opened it?"

Noah pauses for a brief beat, staring at me with exasperated bewilderment. "Does it matter?" Underneath his unemotional exterior, he is hilariously expressive.

I try and fail to contain a snort, which explodes from the back of my throat like a warthog sneezing.

"No bread for you! That's your punishment," he proclaims.

I lunge for the basket of pan batido that Noah holds above his shoulder, grabbing at his wrist and managing to knock over his glass of water in the process.

"¡Pucha, po!" I gently curse in my best Chilean accent. The English equivalent would be something along the lines of "gosh darn it!"

Noah shakes his head, bringing a towel from the kitchen. I receive it from him and wipe up the table.

"We're such children," I remark.

Noah removes the wet towel from my hands and wrings it out in the sink, the muscles of his lean forearms protruding as he squeezes out every last drop of water. It doesn't surprise me that he grew up taking on a significant share of family responsibilities; there is a maturity laced into his entire disposition and his centered, competent approach to tasks.

"Did you know, I hate tomatoes," I remark as Noah returns to our meal.

"Um..." Noah raises one eyebrow in the way he loves to do when he's about to make fun of me. Granted, I'm piling a giant serving of tomato salad onto my plate. Absolutely everything about tonight is making me bust up, most of all Noah's various facial expressions.

"No, I meant, I hated tomatoes, in the United States," I clarify, except I mistakenly use the preterit past tense of the verb "odiar" (to hate), making it sound like one time, under one particular circumstance, I hated tomatoes. As if it were a specific, concrete action against the fruits. In other words, it sounds ridiculous.

Noah continues staring at me with bent-up eyebrows; I'm quite certain he doesn't actually find my muck-ups that strange, but he is having the time of his life badgering me with his silent mockery.

"I used to hate tomatoes!" I blurt loudly, finally using the imperfect verb tense to form a logical sentence. "Until I tried Chilean tomatoes. They are so delicious here."

Rather than responding, my dork of a roommate widens his eyes at me for several seconds and then wiggles his eyebrows around in random patterns, simply to be a goof, I presume. When he finally speaks, he's got me in stitches again.