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17-Feb-2017 15:12

You wait, what, a week for the bad energy to dissipate and then you start dating. Minuses: she’s always working, and she has a four-year-old named Justin. One of those hot moms, and you’re excited for the first time in more than a year. She’s probably had a lot of bad experiences with the hit-and-run types. But it galls you that she gave it up to some thug with no job, no education, no nothing, and now she’s making you jump through hoops of fire. she asks when she next calls, and you almost say yes, but then your idiocy gets the better of you. Where was that guard when she let the banilejo fuck her without a condom? Besides, it only happens when you’re not looking for it. When winter rolls in, a part of you fears that you’ll fold—Boston winters are on some terrorism shit—but you need the activity more than anything, so you keep at it even as the trees are stripped of their foliage and the paths empty out and the frost reaches into your bones. Every time you think about the ex, every time the loneliness rears up in you like a seething, burning continent, you tie on your shoes and hit the paths and that helps; it really does.

I should have done this years ago, you declare, and your friend Arlenny, who never, ever messed with you (Thank God, she mutters), rolls her eyes. She smiles often, and whenever she’s nervous she says, Tell me something. Normally that would be a no-go, but Noemi is not only nice, she’s also kinda fly. She is instantly guarded, and that adds to your irritation. You run so hard that your heart feels like it’s going to seize. You lose all that drinking and smoking chub, and your legs look like they belong to someone else. Along the inside arch, a searing that doesn’t subside after a few days’ rest.

You put your lips against the baby’s stomach and blow. She had him with a banilejo who had four other kids with four other women. You and Noemi fall into a little pattern: on Sunday you take her out to dinner—she doesn’t eat anything remotely adventurous, so it’s always Italian—and then she stays the night. Three Sundays in a row she sleeps over, and three Sundays in a row nada. This is your last chance, but instead of begging for mercy you bark, Fine. After you pull yourself together, you tell Elvis, I think I need a break from the bitches. You pass each other a couple of times a week, and she’s a pleasure to watch, a gazelle, really—what economy, what gait, and what an amazing fucking cuerpazo.

Your ex never wanted kids, but toward the end she made you get a sperm test, just in case she decided to change her mind. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he’ll be dropping an album if she’s not careful. Sunday is her one day off—the Five-Baby Father watches Justin that day, or, rather, he and his new girlfriend watch Justin that day. Not sweet at all, because Noemi didn’t give it to you! On whether you’re planning to give me ass anytime soon. You know as soon as you say it that you just buried yourself. Then she says, Let me get off this phone before I say something you won’t like. Even these little breakups suck, because they send you right back to thinking about the ex. This time you spend six months wallowing in it before you return to the world. By winter’s end, you’ve gotten to know all the morning regulars and there’s even this one girl who inspires in you some hope.

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You start taking salsa classes, like you always swore you would, so that the two of you can dance together. You phone her every day and leave messages that she doesn’t answer.

Elvis encourages you to try yoga, the half-Bikram kind they teach in Central Square. The namaste bullshit you could do without, but you fall into it and soon you’re pulling vinyasas with the best of them. There are mad hos, all with their asses in the air, but none of them catch your eye. She seems impressed that, of all the guys in the class, you alone never take off your shirt, but you skitter away from her cornpone grin. She’s half your age, one of those super-geniuses who finished undergrad when she was nineteen and is seriously lovely. What she does appear to like is your body, can’t keep her hands off it. The walk back to your apartment is some Bataan-type shit.

The fact that she hasn’t changed her number gives you strange hope, even though you’ve heard that she’s dating somebody. While you’re not exactly feeling the hos right now, you don’t want to lose all the conditioning you’ve built up, so you give it a shot. You finally start work on your eighties apocalypse novel—finally starting means you write a paragraph—and in a flush of confidence you begin messing with this young morena from Harvard Law School whom you meet at the Enormous Room. She says that she likes your mind, but, considering that she’s smarter than you, that seems doubtful.

And because love, real love, is not so easily shed.

Because you’ve gone through so much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). She brings her own pillow, one of those expensive foam ones, and her own toothbrush, and she takes it all with her on Monday morning. You send her one exploratory text, but it’s never answered. You two are pushing his daughter’s stroller around the playground near Columbia Terrace. And you thought this guy was a good idea for what reason? A little kissing, a little feeling up, but nothing beyond that. Within an hour, she has unfriended you on Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. For a while you haunt the city, like a two-bit ballplayer dreaming of a call-up. White people pull up alongside you at traffic lights and scream at you with a hideous rage, like you nearly ran over their mother. Before you can figure out what the hell is going on, they flip you the bird and peel out. Security guards follow you in stores, and every time you step onto Harvard property you’re asked for I. Three times, drunk white dudes in different parts of the city try to pick fights with you. I hope someone drops a fucking bomb on this city, you rant. Why all my black and Latino students leave as soon as they can. He was born and raised in Jamaica Plain, knows that trying to defend Boston from uncool is like blocking a bullet with a slice of bread.

Well, then dating a Dominican woman can be an even more complicated affair for you. Well, whether you like it or not, Dominican women love to dance!… continue reading »

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Jul 23, 2012. And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Over a. You wait, what, a week for the bad energy to dissipate and then you start dating. Her name is Noemi, Dominican from Baní, and you meet at Sofia's in the last months before it closes. One of the ex-sucias publishes a poem about you online.… continue reading »

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