It is I, Manuela — The Girl From Your Spanish-Language Textbook

I was happy. Once.

I was happy. Once. Yes, darling, just like you. Men used to look at me. Some would even say, “That is a nice dress you have on.” Women — they used to quake in my presence. On more than one occasion, at a fiesta (party) or some other absolutely tawdry event, a broad would come up to me and say “I like your azul (blue) skirt. I also have a skirt, but it is a roja (red) skirt.” Sure, she sounded nice. But I knew what she meant. What she was really trying to say. They’ve always been out to get me.

I had passions, once. Oh, sure I did. Just like you. I used to go into the town centre every Saturday (when my mother would let me out of her sight, God rest that witch) with my girlfriends, Conchita and Dolores. I was absolutely enthralled with the wonders of the computer café (cafe). These computer cafés were very big when I was growing up, you know. They seemed to populate every street corner. God, they were such a motín (riot). But the sands of time have eroded these once simple pleasures into faded, retro annoyances. That’s vida (life), though, isn’t it?

That’s vida.

I don’t know where Conchita is, nowadays. We vowed to be best friends forever, but you know how things go. You drift. Once a week phone calls become once a month, and before you know it, you’re just sending Christmas cards back and forth until one of you dies. I should give Conchita a call on the teléfono (telephone). She used to love dancing all night at la discoteca (the disco) with all the other students. I remember being jealous of her. I shouldn’t have been, but I envied her carefree attitude. She had so much moxie, then. I did too. I heard through the grapevine that she married Guillermo and they have three niños (children) of their own. I just hope that fire and wit she used to have hasn’t been extinguished from those entrancing hazel eyes of hers.

God, what I would give to have the energy I used to. These days I can’t even go to the la carnicería (butcher shop) without having to stop for a moment and catch my breath. It’s probably the cigarettes. I know I should stop, but I find el fumar (smoke) intoxicating, no pun intended. I used to be able to stay out until the wee hours of the morning, dancing the night away. A scout saw me once, wanted to put me in a show in the city. I couldn’t leave home, though––my mother had no one. Oh, I had great legs, back then. A boy would come up to me and say, “You have nice legs, and I enjoy sport.” And I would say nothing, but smile. ¡Yo no diría nada sino que sonreiría!

Now I spend my days at home alone, making cups of tea for no one. I keep thinking I hear the sound of Pedro walking through the door, and I start to pick up a taza (cup) before letting the china clatter to the Formica (Formica). I remember. Pedro is never coming back. Pedro is too busy roller skating in el parque (park) with Marisol (Marisol). Oh, but just you wait, Marisol. Just you wait. He’ll trade you in for a younger model soon enough. They always do. Siempre lo hacen (they always do).

There was Daniel, too. Daniel was — diferente (different). Different than any other boy I went with. To everyone else, he was the cute boy quien no podía nadar (who could not swim).

To me, though — to me, he was sparkling. I should’ve known he also thought that about Javier, who had a great passion for his CD-ROM (CD-ROM) player. I was but a foolish girl then. But I know things now. I know better than to dream a boy from the barrio (neighborhood) will come and sweep me off my feet in front of la plaza (Square). ¡Tengo más conocimiento!

I ran into Dolores, another ghost of my past, in the mercado (market) the other day. Well, I shouldn’t really say “ran into” — It was more like I saw her picking out a bottle of jerez seco (dry sherry) from behind a tall plant. She had stared at it, examining the label. I wanted to rush over to her let her know she was wasting her time with a jerez seco, but something held me back. I wanted to watch my amiga, who once loved to play chess and pet the perro, live in an ensconced moment of loneliness. God, I wonder what that’s like. The years had gotten to Dolores in the way of her figure, but there was still a youthful glow about her ojos. I watched her as she put the jerez seco in her basket and walked off. Perhaps she was going to a fiesta of her own. It is las fiestas after all. I wonder what it is like, to have that.

For now, though, I shall continue doing what I do every day; staring out la ventana, thinking about how much I love to go to el cine and eating los alfajores.

How I love it, so.

Kate Schulman is a comedy writer and occasional stand-up comedian. She hopes to get a job after college. You can check out more of her work on her website, kateschulman.com.