I'll Give You a Reason: Stories by Annell Lopez

Author:Annell Lopez [López, Annell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Love Language

MY MOTHER ALWAYS SAYS THAT A DROP OF WATER, IF persistent enough, will hollow out a stone. That a squeaky wheel, if loud enough, will get greased. As I watch Rodrigo struggle to chew a forkful of spaghetti too big for his mouth, I wonder if I’m the wheel that squeaks or the water that drops.

Rodrigo’s doing that thing where he tries to force a smile out of politeness. I’m sure he hates the food, but it’s likely he won’t tell me. I watch him stab at a neat little pile drenched in the garlic-infused olive oil I got at the bodega. He holds the spoon with his left hand, the fork with his right. He twirls the fork around hastily, gathering so many noodles you’d think we had a damn thing to do after dinner.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, though I’m aware of just how much is wrong. For one, the clams are from a can that sat on a dusty shelf. Yes, there’s a seafood market down the street, where sacks of fresh clams crowd a U-shaped countertop, but if I were to buy fresh clams and dinner were to be delicious, or even edible, Rodrigo would still just sit there, ignoring me.

We weren’t always like this. The honeymoon period ended, and I guess other things died along the way. It’s hard to say what exactly. Change is imperceptible sometimes. That is, until it grows and accumulates. Before you know it, a nuisance becomes a problem, and a leak becomes a flood. You could say Rodrigo and I are standing in a puddle of water. Our socks are getting wet. And I’m wondering if we still have a chance.

Rodrigo looks at me. A noodle dangles from the corner of his mouth. He slurps it up. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says.

Months ago, I sought my mother’s advice. I asked her if she and my father still spoke each other’s love languages. She cackled so loudly I had to move the phone away from my face. She said, “That’s some white people shit.”

I take a sip of wine and stare at his eyes. His crow’s feet make his eyes look smaller than they are. Maybe it’s not that they’re so small but that his forehead protrudes and his eyes are sunken, making him look more somber than he is.

“You hate it,” I say.

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Fine.”

The hard cast holding the broken pieces of my tibia together is making my skin itch. I use a butter knife to scratch my leg. Rodrigo watches me but doesn’t say a word.

“So what’s wrong with the food?”

I wait for him to swallow the thick bulge of spaghetti he’s been chewing. Why can’t he see that I crave the sound of his voice? I’m expecting a straight answer, one that will let me know what he hates most: the garlic, the gummy chunks passing as clams, or me. He finally swallows. “I think it would have been better if you’d used fresh garlic or fresh herbs,” he says.

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