Grapes Upside Down

29. Box Wine

~Madisen~

After coffee with sugar and cream, croissants and chamomile tea with honey, we have yet to exhaust even a sliver of potential conversation topics. Ignacio is full of side-splitting anecdotes about every ridiculous job he has held since high school, and he flits from questions to jokes to tangents to eavesdropping on other tables' conversations. 

Despite committing every social faux pas that would normally grate on my nerves—constantly interrupting me, over-explaining his stories with pointless details, and touching me often—none of his actions seem to bother me.

 I'm entirely enthralled with him.

Our bums become numb long before the conversation runs dry, and Ignacio suggests we walk along the beach to watch the sunset. As we exit the café, he takes my hand in his with complete confidence, not for a moment second-guessing the gesture.

My mind flashes to Noah and all the times recently when I suspected he wanted to take up my hand as we walked between the micro and the Mendez house, coming and going to classes and outings. Was he truly so inhibited by fear of rejection, or was it simply never in his plans to take our friendship to the level of romantic relationship?

God, how foolish I've been, again.

I'm so naïve. Falling for a gay guy in high school, misinterpreting the chemistry of deep friendship as romantic love. Allowing Donovan, in the fall semester of sophomore year at Whitman, to manipulate me into having sex before I was ready, only to watch the relationship fizzle and die after an incredibly awkward night.

This is the only first date I have ever been on that hasn't been excruciatingly uncomfortable. In fact, I'm so at ease that I have no trouble understanding most of Ignacio's Spanish. It helps that his communication style is expressive, his enunciation far better than most Chileans. He is conscientious of explaining the "chilenismos" he utilizes (although by this point in the program, I'm familiar with most of the common ones), along with clarifying idiomatic expressions and obscure vocabulary terms.

"Where do you work now?" I ask as the tip of the orange sphere melts into the shimmery ocean, surrounded by puffy purple clouds.

"I'm a waiter at an Italian restaurant here in Valpo. I have Mondays off, which is why I wanted to get in touch with you today. I work every other night until 10:00 or 11:00pm."

Based on the number and variety of jobs he has worked, I'm getting the impression that Ignacio is a few years older than I am, though it doesn't feel uncomfortable or anything. His spirit is youthful, but he clearly has more lived experience than I do.

Ignacio plops onto the sand, his body taking the shape of a gingerbread man that can't manipulate its limbs. His feet raise into the air as he tilts backwards more than he meant to, but rather than being embarrassed, he merely releases this cute little "woohoo!" and throws me a carefree grin. He pats the sand next to him, and I join.

Watching the final layer of buttery sun blend into the sea, blurred by smudges of misty clouds in a spectrum of bluish, purplish, pinkish grays, he scoots closer to wrap his arm around my shoulder.

"I'm not ready to take you home just yet."

I smile at him, nervous that he's looking to make out with me already. Instead he says:

"Should we go have some drinks? We can invite Daria!"

There's a part of me that tenses with suspicion at the mention of my friend's name, those tiny needles of jealousy pricking me at the fact that he called her first and now wants to call her again, in the middle of our date.