Page 10 of Cava with My Colleague

I laugh and smack his shoulder. “Manny! You’re terrible.”

He chuckles and sets his gaze back on the board. Then he switches back to Spanish. “Are any of your coworkers on here? Like that tío bueno.”

“Tío bueno?” I echo. Then in English. “Uncle good—I mean, good uncle?”

“Hottie,” he says, teasing me. “Carlos, no?”

“Ugh,” I say, thumping my head on the tabletop. “I don’t want to talk about Carlos.”

“En español,” he reminds me. “Cuéntame.”

I tell Manny about the presentation schedule. I get through most of it in Spanish—at least the basics, anyway—and I’m pleased with myself.

“It sounds like a good opportunity for you,” Manny observes.

“Cómo se dice ‘patient advocacy groups’?” I ask. “Grupos de defensa de los pacientes?”

He waggles his head. “Asociaciones de pacientes, quizás.” Maybe. “What does that have to do with your job?”

I struggle through the Spanish, explaining to Manny that these groups connect patients with resources and support. They help build a support network and then—the part that’s really relevant to my job—they lobby for research funding and political support. “But mostly it means that there will be patients at these presentations, people who really need these shampoos that I’ve been trialing.”

“Ah,” he says. “This is important.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

We stay like that for a moment and then Manny releases me and checks the clock. “Two minutes—quick, tell me about your weekend plans.”

“Oh, do you remember that friend in Amsterdam that I spent New Year’s Eve with? She’s getting married and this weekend I’m going to her big hen party.”

Manny grins, and then covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh.

“What?” I ask.

He tries to contain himself. “Fiesta de la gran polla”—he switches to English—“means party of the big dick.”

I gasp. “Noooo. Manny. I said that at work.”

He covers his laughter with both hands now.

“A LOT.”

He throws his head back and cackles.

“Oh my god.” I put my head in my hands. There are several stages to this kind of mortification and I intend to work through all of them. “Manny.” I look up at him with the full weight of my suffering. “I told my boss.”

He loses it completely.

“This is not funny,” I tell him, which is a lie. “I am a professional scientist. I have a PhD.” I press my hands to my cheeks. “I have a PhD, Manny, and I spent a week accidentally telling everyone I work with that I enjoy a big⁠—”

“Okay, okay.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He is not sorry.

“They probably knew what you meant in context. It’s an easy mistake to make.”

By now my embarrassment has tipped more into amusement. It is funny. “I have so many questions. Why is pollo chicken and polla dick? How do you say bachelorette—or hen do—in Spanish?”

Manny sticks with English, thankfully. “Well, if you picture a hen sitting on two eggs, it might look like a . . .” He gesticulates to get the message across.

“So then you just use context to know when you mean an actual bird?”