Page 11 of Cava with My Colleague

“No, the word we use is gallina. From Latin, I think.”

“Stupid Latin,” I mutter, and Manny chuckles. The timer goes off on his phone and Manny gives me a sly grin as he pulls a bottle of wine out of his bag. “Oh thank god.”

He opens the food container and the smell of cured meats wafts toward me—embutido, Spanish charcuterie. I dig some toothpicks out of the drawer in the kitchen and then stab a piece—salchichón, I think. I’m still learning to identify all the ways the Spanish cure pork.

I hum in delight, and then return to the kitchen for wineglasses. “So what about bachelorette party?”

“Despedida de soltera.”

“Despedida de soltera,” I whisper to myself. Then I speak up so Manny can hear while I reach into my cabinets. “Literally?”

A cork pops. “Goodbye to the maiden. And de soltera is maiden name.”

I bring the wineglasses over and pour generously before holding my wine glass up. “Por las despedidas de soltera!”

Manny clicks his wineglass with mine. “Y a gran pollas!”

5

Carlos

* * *

“Fernando,” I say, a warning in my tone. “Do not throw that ball.”

My son—all six feet of him at twenty-nine years old—contemplates the ball in his hand and then my dog. Izan has his eyes glued to the ball, walking backward while begging for Fernando to toss it.

It’s hard to deny an old man what he wants.

And, predictably, Fernando stops. Izan sits. And Fernando throws the ball across the field. Izan shoots off at his fastest, letting out a ripping blast of gas as he lurches into a trot after the ball.

“You’re going to kill my dog,” I mutter, and we both watch Izan chase after the ball, which is, admittedly, not a very fast pace for a dog. Izan may be past his prime, but he still enjoys long walks to the park and suckering Fernando into throwing his ball.

Carmen, my four-month-old granddaughter who is strapped to my chest, giggles as we stroll behind my dog. The lake with the rowboats is behind us and ahead of us is the long stretch of manicured trees in the thick of the park.

Retiro Park is big, and it’s a warm and sunny day. March’s weather is capricious in Madrid, and today it finally feels like winter may be over. The last few weekends were cold and rainy, so it feels like most Madrileños are outside today. The trees are budding, the grass is reviving, and the air is fresh and crisp.

Diana, Fernando’s wife, leans in and coos at her daughter, and a burst of love glimmers in my chest. It’s surreal how perfect my life is now.

Twenty-something years ago my late wife and I moved into Chueca with Fernando, then a toddler, because it’s what we could afford. Fernando grew up as the neighborhood did, and the queerness of Chueca was the community we needed, even if you wouldn’t have known from looking at us.

That’s why it irked me so much when Jade was surprised to learn I lived here. I belong here.

I spot Izan ambling back toward us with a ball in his mouth—but not our ball. There is a smaller dog following him, jumping along and yapping, trying to reach the ball in his mouth. A woman trails behind.

Fernando laughs.

We slow to a stop as Izan sits at my feet looking up at me. Regardless of who threw the ball for him, he always comes back to me. It isn’t the smartest thing for him to do, since I refused to throw the ball very far.

Fernando crouches down. “Who did you bring back with you?”

The smaller dog sniffs him, circling, and the woman—I assume, the owner—catches up.

I bend over slightly, causing Carmen to laugh, and command Izan to give me the ball. Fortunately, this time he drops it right away, unlike Jade’s riding crop.

“Is this yours?” I ask the little dog, offering the ball. I have to crouch down, which puts Carmen’s feet in sniffing range for the little dog, and Izan woofs at it, protective of my granddaughter. It’s okay though, because the ball is deemed more interesting, and the dog runs off with it.

“Yes it is,” the woman says, putting her hands on her hips, a teasing edge to her voice. “Your dog stole it.”