Grown Up Juice and Make Believe

I am thrust out of slumber by the noise of you in the kitchen, but I know you are making me a cup of coffee, so I hug the pillow next to me and smile. I roll over to search for the clock on the ledge beside your bed. It is 8 am. The darkness in the room is as heavy as my eye lids and the morning light can only make its way through the open door via the window in the kitchen. The bedroom window is barricaded from the suns early morning distractions and the next-door-neighbor’s dog’s late night disruptions.

I stagger into the washroom to check out my medusa hair and rinse my mouth and wine stained lips. I find you hovering over the stove already dressed in yesterday clothes ready to take on the world. A supportive hug is lent to my sleepy head and I drift back into your smell. You release me gently from the cradle of your shoulder and pour coffee for two. We sit and watch the world intently through the eyes of your backyard while shades of emerald life flicker in the morning sun. We hardly look or speak with each other and the moment is peaceful and the coffee is really good.

The night before dances across my dreamy vision while I prepare to let the previous day go and organize myself for this one to begin. My thoughts linger in yesterday’s moments that stand out and I recall; dinner, watered down wine and sweet dark beer. I reminisce on bits of conversation, rare meat with salad and chuckles over the blasphemy of our desire to add ice and water to the simple vino that quenches our summertime thirst and washes down our salty beef. With grown up juice we play make believe and share a picnic party for two hunched over wine barrel benches in the evening sun. As the sun disappears the wine thickens along with the conversation.

A change of scenery is met with a stroll in the warm breeze as we head in the direction of the local corner store and neighborhood kitchen. You lead me to a small austere brick structure, not more than four walls and roof, painted yolk yellow and adorned with a luminated sign reading “Las Tranqueras”. The store is perched on the opposite side of a wide and deep irrigation canal beneath the shade of huge tree wedged into the channel itself. A small bridge of rough and lacquered timber wobbily allows passage to the busy convient store.

There is a line up of locals with sticky children eating ice cream while the resident parents wait for pizza and empanadas to go. Rounds of mortadella and cheese are stacked in glass cases and flats of eggs and country style bread fill the countertops. Refrigerators of cold pop and beer stand next to shelves full of cheap wine and booze that line the walls behind a man with a pony tail. Glimpses of a woman with a sturdy yet voluptuous figure are caught through the door to the kitchen. She is wearing black sweat pants and t-shirt covered by an old fashioned apron. She swaggers with full hips and full hands sharing her mother’s empanadas with the neighborhood.

A big bottle of black beer is ordered and it comes cold with the cap still on. A handy bottle opener is wedged into the door frame bestowing us with immediate drinking pleasure. We park ourselves on a few tree stump stools, and lean against uneven varnished logs which are loosely hammered into a railing, defining a seating area out of a patch of dry compacted dirt. We sip out of the bottle and watch in amazement as people continuously course through the tiny place. Paper packages with grease seeping through the layers are whisked in the hands of sweat pant clad wives to the waiting cars of hungry husbands and kids. The smell of greasy empanadas wafts through our conversation.

We chat and argue friendlily between swigs of brown sugary malted stout. We discuss the man and the woman, husband and wife together sharing their simple life with the world one empanada at a time. After philosophical debates on life and the need for change you wonder if I ever place myself in theirs, serving empanadas and cold cuts to the neighborhood. We both decide that it seems honest and happy and needless to say successful. It was romantic and so was the moment. The implications were clear so we ordered two empanadas and another bottle of beer.

With only minutes to spare the couple oblige as they begin to wrap up their work day. Two yummy bundles of meat and seasoning baked into crispy goodness are delivered to us on a paper towel. We munch and wink at each other with content, as we are convinced we are enjoying the fruits of this candid union. The lights go out and the door is locked. We wait for them to kiss, smile at each other and bid us as good as evening as theirs before they retreat to their minimal yet quaint home next door. We prepare ourselves for this perfect moment with a sigh and puppy dog eyes.

When to our dismay the couple turn and nonchalantly give each other a platonic nod good night, a “hey I’ll see ya tomorrow” shrug while they heedlessly turn in opposite directions. For a second we look at each other in wide eyed horror before we burst into laughter. We discuss the man and the woman once again, but this time their lives separate.

With grown up juice we play make believe and watch the man get in his car. We imagine that he is off to meet his buddies and the only warmth he will feel is a tummy full of whiskey and the friction from a stack of dirty magazines. Our eyes follow the woman to the house next door and we envision that she opens the door to find her fat husband who pays her no attention watching TV and her screaming children who don’t know her loneliness selfishly running rampant. We both decide that it seems honest and sad and needless to say miserable.

We finished our beer and walk back home arm in arm and the moment was romantic and the implications were clear. This morning I place myself in the life where I remember; dinner for two hunched over wine barrel benches, the blasphemy of watered down wine and good conversation over sweet dark beer. The coffee is really good and we are ready for another day.