Francesca

I abandoned my pretentious life in Chicago and moved to Spain on the premise that it was my last stop before my demise. I did not expect to love it. I did not expect to never leave. I did not expect to find the answers that so I covertly craved for in a culture so foreign to my own. Despite the unbearable challenges, that I do miss from a distance, do I regret it? Somewhat, but not for the reasons that you might think. It is not that I am homesick or miss my family and friends. For me, phone conversations and shallow text messages saying, "You're welcome at any time" suffice enough for me. My insecurity lies with how well I utilized my time in America. On a good day, if you were to ask me, I would tell you that I witnessed the best parts of it during my 25 years in California and seven years in Chicago. What more was there to learn that I hadn't already seen in the Golden State or Windy City? Whenever I told the Spainards that I was from America, as if my accent alone did not state the melt my ice cream on a sunny day, they inhibited an uncertainty that made me readjust my weight to the opposing foot. I could not help but take it personally. They viewed me as a goddess from the land of the free and wondered why I left such a revered country for theirs. I am known to be easily convinced, and at times, I wondered if I made the right decision.

I completely uprooted my life when I turned 32 years old. During the transition, I still felt inexperienced and immature. The only difference was that I had managed to save around $50,000, which gave me the freedom to start a new life without having to worry about abiding by a minimum-wage job. It would have been impossible if I had those two kids with my ex-husband, Fred. Unfortunately, I had two miscarriages, and my husband eventually fell out of love with me. Every aspect of my life was planned down to the smallest detail, as is the case with many lower to middle-class Americans. You simply cannot afford spontaneity. I grew fatigue. I grew tired. I covertly craved the pandemonium. Malady. Desperation even.

I adored Alfred, yes. I loved him an abundance to vow to spend the rest of my life with him. I intended for our wedding to be the happiest day of my life, but around 24, I realized that the emptiness and insatiable feeling of yearning was an inherent trait of mine that would not dissipate or be displaced anywhere outside of the host. I inherited that omen from my mother, where she realized it or not. I wore her portent clandestinely parcelled around my neck similar to a noose that held a putrid syrupy sweet scent that attacted all things carrion.

Fred was aware of the smell, I know. He was just unable to gauge who was the source. I adored Fred’s ability to not be repeled by the interdiction that slept in my mind. He would never stimulate that part of my mind on his own accord, but would submissively sit and walk the depths inside of it along with me. No matter how gunky or greasy the walls of my mind became, he always appeared unphased, silently requesting more.

My friends and family liked Fred a lot. I mean, I loved him. But, when they first met him, they thought he was "too American." According to my friends, I had the love only a sailor could handle. Thanks to them, I began to look for my sailor in my dreams, at the bottom of my devoided glasses, and even on my ceilings when I could not muster up enough strength to peel myself off the bathroom floor. When I could not find my sailor, I resorted back to my friends and slyly asked what else they potentially saw in their magic ball. My friends would further their sentiment and my insecurity by saying that they foreshadowed me being with an expat. It was something that I hoped for when I was a younger, until I realized how truly isolating that rung.

Indeed, Fred, was not a bad guy or even husband. He was the ideal person to divorce. Everything was amicable, and he split everything 50/50. He probably felt putrid for being one of those guys who stepped out on their wives during a miscarriage. He probably assumed that giving me half of his assessts was the least he could do — but to me it was superfluous. Did I still take what was given to me without a fight? Yes. Despite his infidelity, I was not unconditionally honest during our marriage either. I kept my contentedness of the miscarriages from him. In hindsight, he was more grief-stricken than I could ever be. Fred never failed to mention that he wanted to be a father, and the deceitful optimism that my reproductive system salaried was probably too much for him to bear. Me? I was relieved. I was anxious of my innate maternal instincts were failing to kick in. I did not want more stretch marks, or saggier breasts; I did not want to reek of a mother. He was a good person who deserved a family, but simply not with me.

On my way back from France, I had the advantage of meeting Fred at the O'Hare International Airport. He struck me as a composed and sophisticated individual, which was refreshing to encounter, and oh how was I parched for his convention. I was particularly intrigued by his demeanor. As if I had been searching for someone on his caliber since my previous life time. Given the difficulty I had been facing in coupling with my peers at the age of 28, I knew to coddle this men the best I could to avoid him slipping from my grasp. He appeared older and I knew he was drawn to my plushed lips and slightly gapped teeth, that men found strangely attractive. For a more clumsy attraction, I hit him with the doe-eyed veneer to expose the whites in my eye that only came naturally to those who are young and supple. I found Fred to be rather likable and his company did not feel asphyxiating. I made sure to ask him all the necessary questions that sought to be important at the prime age that I was in order to truly understand the nature and any shortcomings he might of had. Upon reflection, I was satisfied with what I learned about him, even though there might have been other aspects of his personality that I did not get to explore.

During our rendezvous at O’Hare, I stared into his eyes and I tried not to avert mine towards the ticking clock that seemed to reflect the same menacing smile that Mother Nature had on my reproductive system. I was acutely aware of the passage of time and how it affected my ability to conceive. Every tick of the clock seemed to disparage me, reminding me that every passing moment was one step closer to losing my chance at motherhood. This is what the book of life failed to inform women. You may have the right not to bare children, but you must bleed out the version of yourself that still held on to the hope if the timing is not there. The same version of yourself that you nurtured and ran to as a little girl, will now have to be annihilated by a version of yourself that this little girl never wanted to meet. It was difficult to encourage the little girl to embark on this unpaved avenue, but nonetheless, she had no other option. And, for all she knew, Fred was her sailor.

Fred offered to go to couples counseling, but it was a very superficial attempt. He did not blink an eye when I debated the notion of divorce. I comprehended it was what he needed. One thing about Fred that I detested was that he was a portable stepping stool. Still, I knew that before entering a union with him and thought I would be able to look past it. Was cheating on his "mourning" wife, who had two miscarriages, the right thing to do? No. But is it understandable to why he did? Absolutely. Luckily, I knew there was more out there for me, so I was not too chewed up on being a divorcee.

I vividly recall the moment when I felt the void left by Fred, four months after the divorce was finalized. It happened on a rainy day, during the first rain of the season, when my car got a flat tire on the side of the freeway. The situation was already dramatic, and his absence made it even worse, primarily because I needed his full coverage car insurance. No one was going to stop for me that particular raining evening. I drove a onyx sleek Porsche Macan GTS with a cashmere interior and vermillion accents, while being attired in a stunning suede leather coat that perfectly matched my bold crimson lipstick, paired with a pair of towering 5-inch heels that accentuated my underdeveloped anxious inner child gait. The passing drivers probably assumed that I was this woman who had full coverage car insurance and a husband on the way. Not some newly divorced hypersexual woman contemplating running into traffic. There was no excuse for why I went as long as I did without car insurance. I want to say it slipped my mind, but it indeed did not. Fred reminded me every 9th of the month to get on a new plan because I was booted off of his. At the time, I was not used to paying all my bills in full, and felt inaccurately invincible.

On that rainy night, everyone seemed to have an extra push on their gas pedal to get back home to fawn over the change of season. As for me, I had my salt and pepper fish and shrimp chow mein in the passenger seat, and I was planning to do the same for the rest of the night. Eventually when my $400 bill arrived and relieved me of the isolation, I made it home safely, drank a whole bottle of Pinot Noir, used my favorite vibrator to the melody of the sky’s moisture, set with a fire wickering candle burning in the backdrop, and pleasured myself to trance. I woke up the following day with a wine-induced headache, got on my own policy, and never thought of Alfred again.

I was bummed about having to say goodbye to the shared apartment Fred and I split in downtown Chicago. I loved that apartment more than life itself. Chicago was a decent place to live. I always dreamed of living there when I was in my early 20s. I did visit Chicago before when I was 22, but there was a disconnect. I was lonely; I vaguely remember walking with my head down, looking more at the sidewalk than at people's faces. It is not an ideal city to travel to as a solitaire or a perfect town for a married woman to reside in. Chicago is such a melting pot for people. I noticed after my divorce that I was not entirely attracted to my ex-husband.

The experience of living in Spain can be described as having a delicious meal with the sensual flavors of the food, combined with a glass of sultry wine and great company. It is satisfying, even humbling if you squint hard enough. Every corner of Spain is a work of seduction, as if Pablo Picasso himself drove past every crevice of the country and painted it with foreign colors and dimensions that are beyond the reach of human imagination. As an American, you feel like you are on the verge of surrealism as you walk around in a mesmerizing daze, taking in the beauty of your surroundings. You may find yourself delicately plucking petals off each flower to preserve the moment forever.

Hugo and I did not officially tie the knot. However, I have an "H" tattooed on my wedding finger, while he has my name tattooed underneath his cubital fossa. We considered each other as husband and wife and had our month-long honeymoon in Thailand. I have lost all of that bitter American weight, while I only work out a fraction of the time. I do not drive anymore, and I do not wear high heels. Most of the time, I do not use makeup, with the exception of a lovely red lipstick. I understand that I may conform to French beauty standards in Spain, but sue me. My signature look is a humble bandana tied around my head. Here, I am in my actual element. Here, beauty no longer feels like a vacation. Here, I am someone of stature; I am energy, I hold value, and I am loved. Best of it all, here, my finances go a long way.

Before I was his girlfriend, I told Hugo I wanted my cause of death to be by the hands of myself. When he first heard my remark, he looked as if his mind played a trick on him. As he delicately cut into his medium rare steak, I noticed him suddenly pause and look up at me with a quizzical expression. It was almost as if he had heard a faint sound in the distance that caught his attention, like the distant bark of his long-lost dog, Dulce. Despite Spain being known for its beef, Hugo often teased me and said that my Americanness had rubbed off on him since he had not eaten much steak before me.

Hugo's visage was a distinctive sight to behold. His facial features were chiseled and sharply defined, lending an air of rugged handsomeness to his appearance. His long, wavy hair was a deep, rich shade of sepia, falling in thick locks around his face and framing it in a way that drew to the eye. His skin was olive-toned and naturally dewy, with a slight sheen of sweat often visible on the cushion of his nose. All of these elements came together to create a striking and memorable appearance. My husband is graceful and completely abstract from my previous day-to-day American.

As I proclaimed my sentiment to Hugo, expecting an unsettled retort, he looked at me with one eyebrow up, calculatedly chewed, and processed my statement. After he swallowed the dead animal in his mouth, he leaned in more. He pushed his Spanish ceramic plate to the side and unconsciously signaled me to continue speaking. I remember feeling self-conscious at the time. We had only been on four or five dates, and I felt like our relationship had reached the “girlfriend” stage, and the conversation was happening at any second. I liked him enough for him to stay dormant in my life but wanted to test the waters and push the boundaries to see how far I could take it, because I did not like playing hide and go seek in the daylight anymore. I had nothing to lose. At any moment, I was expecting him to excuse himself and go to the restroom, never to return. I had never before had anyone be so intrigued by the words I was saying. What he said next, however, shocked me even more.

“Me too,” he said.

"Really?" was all I could muster up.

That night, we emptied our souls into one another. We each expelled our deepest and darkest secrets in the middle of that restaurant, Los Sanchos. I vividly recall in that moment an overwhelmed sense of euphoria striking me after realizing that the person sitting across from me had secrets that were even worse than my own, and mine were already pretty dreadful. The restaurant closed at 8 p.m., but the owner saw how enamored we were with each other and allowed us to stay while he closed up shop. Throughout the evening, the generous owner kept our glasses filled to the brim with a delightful Tempranillo, on the house, while slowly dimming the lights and placing a flickering candle at our table. To add to the romantic ambiance he curated, he also played some Latin jazz on a low and soft murmur.

Hugo plucked the cherry carnations that was adorned on every surronding table and handed me a bouquet. Throughout the night, I found myself periodically smelling the carnations everytime I would find myself beam at his eye contact. Eventually, we had to leave the restaurant. The owner did not have the heart to kick us out, but I did noticed him falling asleep at the reception when Hugo got up and used the restroom. Hugo and I were up till 2 a.m., walking around inmuebles and clumsily using our loudest pitch in the dead of night. I remember singing my favorite songs that I missed in America, and Hugo was enchanted by my voice and averted his attention to the slight wheezing that I inhibited when I sang for too long. It was the perfect night for us to engage. He offered me to come over to his place so he could rub my feet that were chaffing in my heels I no longer wear, but I ultimately declined because the idea of fantasizing about him was much more appetizing than what he had to offer my plastered mind.

Hugo later called me at 4 a.m., mentioning that he had not been able to sleep and then began crying for reasons undisclosed. I invited him over, and he then proceeded to explore me. I then started crying for reasons unknown. After I finished, Hugo came up and hugged me tightly. It was his gentle way of letting me know that he did not want it to be reciprocated; he rarely wanted the favor returned. Instead, I had him insert inside of me, and we fell asleep in that position with fingers intertwined, with the same red carnations bathing in the moonlight in a vase on my nightstand. I was deceived to wake up the following day, finding our bodies disconnected. That morning, I knew I never wanted to be without his soul again.

What I loved the most about my relationship with Hugo was our shared awkwardness and sentiment. Sometimes, he did not understand my English, and sometimes, I did not understand his Spanish, but he knew red carnations made me blush, and I knew he loved to see me smile. Thus, Hugo planted a whole garden of carnations in our backyard. He threw in a bit of cherry tomato plants because he knew I thought they were so pretty. He has expressed his love for the image of me elbow-deep in our garden with flushed cheeks, wearing my signature bandana.

I hated my hair. It was coily. Big. I equated it to ugly. I always wanted to be his perfect wife, but Hugo was never more mesmerized. My favorite pastime with Hugo was spending hours intertwined with one another, lost in the depths of our own isolated abyss. Hugo and I could talk for hours about anything billowing under and above the sun, but during those moments of silence, I believed we were the most defeaning.

I ensured I would honor my desire of never being without the soul of Hugo. I continually returned to Hugo every morning as a Spanish Goldfinch, in his favorite melody to remind him to nourish our garden of red carnations. It was a superfluous effort, as Hugo never lacked on any of his known responsibilities. But, I still wanted to see him and the beaded nectar that always laid on his nose. There were some mornings where he will wait for me at our balcony. During the time of year it got closer to my birthday, Hugo would attempt to throw rocks at me groggily and slam the window shut while I would sing in my perfect bird melody.

I know he heard the wheezing.