Page 3 of Cava with My Colleague

Manny links his arm through mine and steers me toward our destination—a bar for some tapas and drinks. Halfway there, the rain starts coming down again, making the February day even more unpleasant. By the time we get to our destination, I’m ready for a drink. We shake our umbrellas out and take seats at the bar, bags tucked under our feet, and Manny signals to the staff before turning to me with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, now you definitely need to tell me everything about that man.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, trying not to think about my colleague. Why did the thought of him seeing me—really seeing me—makes my pulse race?

“Venga, tía.” There’s an eyebrow waggle that clearly says you liar.

I roll my eyes. “He’s in our marketing department.” I pause. “His name is Carlos. I have been privately calling him Superman for three months.”

Manny’s eyebrows shoot up.

“He has a very notable chin dimple,” I say, defensive. “And that lush, dark hair. It’s purely descriptive.”

Manny sighs, giving me an exaggerated put-upon expression. “En español, guapa.”

This is the problem with being gossipy girlfriends with your language tutor. I say it again in Spanish, and am thankful that we’ve had plenty of gossip couched as Spanish lessons about my dating life and Manny’s relationship with his fiancé.

“Married?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen a ring.”

“Straight? He didn’t even look at me, so I think so.”

Manny’s confidence makes me laugh. No wonder we get along so well. “I have no idea.”

“He’s very handsome for his age. You think so, no? Why have you not asked him out yet?”

He is attractive. When I think silver fox, I think Patrick Dempsey or George Clooney, men who have gotten even more attractive with age. I’ve never personally known a man at Carlos’s age—fifties, I think?—who is that attractive. And there’s something about a man who’s already figured out who they are. The confidence.

“I did ask him out. He turned me down.” We work in different departments, so there wasn’t any issue with company policy. But from then on, Carlos looked at me like I had the plague.

First of all, not many men turn me down. I’m fabulous . . . and with my petite frame, tan skin, and thick, dark hair, I fit enough of the beauty industry’s standards to enjoy pretty privilege. The white streak in my hair means I’m memorable, too. I stand out. And at forty years old, I’m confident and mature.

Basically, I’m awesome.

Secondly, we’re grown-ups and I have confidence out the wazoo. I would never make him feel uncomfortable for turning me down, because there’s always the next guy. But his avoidance made me feel like I’d done something wrong. I hadn’t!

And he only seemed to get colder and colder until I wish I’d never thought the man attractive in my life.

“He said no?” Manny leans in, incredulous. See? Even he gets it. “Ese cincuentón has no taste. I mean, look at you.” He waves his hand up and down my body.

I smooth my blazer—emerald green, fitted, that brings out my eyes. My shoes are white and pristine, my wide-leg jeans sit just right.

It’s Saturday, Madrid is beautiful, and I refuse to spend my days off looking like I just rolled out of a lab.

I laugh. “Okay, okay,” I say, but I use the Spanish vale instead, flicking my hand like so many of the locals do.

Our drinks arrive, and after our first sips, Manny looks up at me from under his lashes. “I just think if it’s not him, you need to find someone else.”

I groan. This is a conversation we’ve had enough times over the past few months that I’m tired of it.

When I first moved here, my best friend Emma stayed with me for a month. I love her to death, but her lifestyle is so different from mine. As a mom of three who had barely traveled, Emma wanted to take in the museums and food, not pick up men. We spent our nights over good food and wine, deepening a friendship even further than I thought possible.

But she was also a bit of a crutch. Instead of being out making friends as a solo traveler, I got lazy and comfortable. And maybe a little depressed when she left.

I also hadn’t started my Spanish lessons, and meeting Manny solved both my problems. We hit it off, despite our ten-ish-year age difference, and he introduced me to the Madrid nightlife.

The problem is that this Madrid nightlife is mostly with gay men. There have been . . . some drawbacks.