I struggle to recall those fifty vocab words I studied, way back in the ninth grade, the ones that were all related to the outdoors. I want to remind you that I’m still just as invested as I was that night in the tent on the bank of the river on our second anniversary, when it was balmy, and you were missing Peru. I can’t recall how to say la hoguera or la estrella, and you are not convinced that I remember the heat or the brightness. “I’m tired of talking,” you say, while scrubbing our bowls at the sink. “In any language.”
“Quiero terminar nuestro matrimonio,” you say, as if you’ve been rehearsing it. “It’s not because of your Spanish. That’s ridiculous. You know that. Estamos rotos.”
“Broken!” I say triumphantly. “I know that one.”
๛
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