I was making myself a quesadilla when my phone buzzed. I was making one because I’ve  gotten used to making them. I’m not Mexican and I never will be, they add way too much spice to their food and I can’t deal with that. But I do like quesadillas, and I like my quesadillas plain.  

“Naisa,” read the message (my name with the syllables switched, classic). “I’m single,”  popped the second bubble on the thread. “Very, very sad,” yelled the next one.  “Emotional support?” A part of me wanted to kill him for making me grab the phone with my greasy, cheesy hands. The other one felt a little bit of sympathy for my best friend’s recurrent situation.  

I would describe my relationship with Andrés as a series of breakup-related conversations. All from his side, none from mine. My incapacity to even desire a relationship in the first place makes the possibility of a breakup impossible. I know I’d be pretty bad at them, too. I wouldn’t really cry or give a shit. I’m overwhelmed by the pressure. Best not to have one in the first place. 

But Andrés is great at them. Breakups, I mean. Not quesadillas. He’s great at relationships in general. He cries! Or at least he tells me he cries. I never get to see him cry because nothing exciting happens when I’m in town. Except for that first girl, when I was fifteen, he was sixteen, and Francesca, the ex-girlfriend of the time, was fourteen and had just read On The Road by Jack Kerouac. She said it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. We were at a Hawaiian themed party where almost everyone periodically tripped and fell into a pool that only looked like a volcano from the outside. 

Note from the author (2022)

De este cuentacho de una página no tengo demasiado que decir más que eso: que un cuentacho en una página. Inicialmente lo hubiésemos puesto cómo personal essay pero creo que ya después de tantos años, se siente como ficción.