Grapes Upside Down

62. Pan Coliza

~Madisen~

I can't stop thinking about kissing Noah. The memories of last night cause my stomach to swell each time with the warmth of a buttery cinnamon roll puffing up in the oven. 

Whenever my imagination fast-forwards with Noah, the contrast between my previous sham of a pololo and my current boyfriend shimmers crystal clear in my brain. Each next date with "Iggy" (as Clara disdainfully refers to him) was an unknown tunnel into the pitch-black night. He was in control of everything--the people we'd meet, the path we'd trace through the city, the level of intimacy reached between us. I was merely along for the ride. Although it felt exhilarating in the moment, my recollections of the experience cause a murky gurgling deep in my gut. The route towards our future was a trapdoor blindly catapulting me straight into adulthood, alongside a man whose outlook on the world was shaded with dark, irreparable streaks of trauma.

In contrast, when I daydream of "next times" with Noah, the anticipation is warm and light like the first rays of sunshine in spring. Each encounter together feels like a slow, meandering stroll through a wildflower-spackled meadow, a mutual exploration with no pressure for a specific outcome. The only immediate plans for our future include our senior year together at Whitman, attending Spanish classes together, making out in the secluded campus gardens, hanging out with friends. I envision us taking turns reading Spanish literature aloud, my head nestled in his lap, or baking alfajores in the dorm kitchens. 

And, we're planning on attending a Coldplay concert together this October in Portland!

Despite the continual ballooning in my stomach caused by a yearning to hug and kiss and feel Noah's hand in mine, I'm excited to party with girl friends tonight while Noah spends an evening with his Aventuras Chile buddies. He's barely seen Armani since before our trip to Patagonia.

Despite having made the journey from Viña to Valpo dozens of times over the course of this semester, I still tense and hold my breath every time the colectivo reaches the top of the hill at the outskirts of Clara's neighborhood. There, we're supposed to turn left, but I always dread a possible miscommunication. As the car balances at the peak, I shutter my eyes and brace for a potential descent down what feels like an eighty degree incline straight into the sea.

I release a controlled exhale as the chofer spins the steering wheel. 

"¿Dónde te dejo?"

Here we go. Maybe this is the time I will finally pronounce the names of the cross streets correctly. 

"En la esquina de Marioneta y Federico Estuben, por favor."

It sprinkles out only slightly butchered, and the driver doesn't ask me to repeat myself. Relative success!

"Gracias," I chirp with confidence, exiting the vehicle.

I speak Spanish. This thought bursts throughout my body like tiny, flowery fireworks. 

It's past 9:00pm, and it's freezing out. Clutching a liter of Coca-Cola, I begin to run.

My feet are buoyed by the sparkly anticipation of the shots of Pisco we're about to down, and the subsequent absurdity that will take place inside the Alamilla home--jokes that will go over our head, ridiculous translations of nonsense sentences and goofy dancing with Clara, Daria, Luis and Antonio (her hilarious host dads, whom we cajoled into joining tonight).

Tennis shoes springy against the pavement, I pick up speed while imagining sneaking into Noah's room later for a goodnight kiss. Just as he thinks I'm about to pull away after an innocent peck, I'll deepen the kiss, tugging my fingers through his rich black hair until he lets out one of those sweet little tortured moans that always leave him a smidge embarrassed.