When you see my face, hope it gives you hell…

Passengers aboard flight 030207, this is your exhausted, swollen-eyed, stuffed-up nose captain speaking. I cried myself to sleep last night, or more like sobbed if I'm going to be honest, following a meet up with mi amigo and former co-worker that I have mentioned here before. I remember the first time I heard the chorus of the All-American Rejects song that I referenced in my title, laughing to myself over the silly, but relevant lyrics, and have found great joy in singing along to it since, thinking of guys in my past who didn't pay me any mind date-wise when I was a 80-100 lb. high schooler (my dad's little "refugee" as he found it hilarious to say), who didn't understand the power of make-up, highlights, and hips. But oh, the mesas have turned since the early 2000's, and the looks decent wagon didn't pass me by, and so I am faced quite often with boys who want a piece of Hannah 2.0, not realizing that the window of opportunity for them was slammed shut in my mind years ago, thus the soft spot in mi corazon for the lines, "When you see my face, hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell." Or well, that is, until last night…

 

I was alerted to the fact that the muchacho of this particular story was going to be leaving for San Luis (or the StL for all you white kids) today, and that he hadn't planned on even saying adios to me by one of his primos, Pax as I will call him, after he and I were heading back to the 'Haute after church. Yeah, you heard that right, I was at church in the am for the second semana in a row, but I'm actually not that proud of my attendance, as both times, and especially yesterday, I was snapping my neck around like a fucking bobblehead, and only kept awake by the Hellion next to me shaking my Ugg-clad leg every 8 seconds or so. Even more embarrassing than my narcolepsy was the fact that Pax, who is completely Mexicano and I'm certain didn't understand shit that was going on at my iglesia, leaned over to me at one point during the service and said, "Ayyy, mucha cerveza," as in, omg Han, you absolutely reek of alcohol you loca freaking borracha. But hey, I'm trying people, I'm trying. Either way, hearing that M. was about to jump ship out of the state without proper exit strategies and pleasantries, I began to inwardly stew, and not even a shopping session with Pax (where I dropped some of the silly money I made last week, and by silly, I just mean insanely good) could make the emotional storm that was brewing inside of me tranquilo. I eventually had to sit down with the Hellion later on the evening and share a pitcher of Margs at Real Ha, the best Mexican in town, where I was greeted by a staff that I adore, and who likewise adore me (I'm sort-of a Mexi-magnet, not gonna lie) because of my loca half juera ways and my pretty decent use of Spanglish. But either way, palabra about M. moving away because of me had already spread like wildfire through the Spanish community in town, and the entire tiempo Hellion, who I renamed Peligrosa (or dangerous) over dinner, and I were imbibing ourselves and eating quesadillas, I had every guy in that place question me about what was going on and say their new nickname for me, "Rompe corazones," or heartbreaker at least a million times. I would have typically found that moniker graciosa, flattering even, but that was before anybody ever felt it necessary to LEAVE THE STATE because of me.

 

And so I stood later, facing him, cara y cara, ten sheets to the wind, not understanding, not comprehending just where my flirtation and friendship (at least that's what I thought it was) had taken he and I. "Por que, M., por que? How can you do this? How can you just leave? Were you honestly just going to pack up and go without saying goodbye? Even though we were friends first, before all this bullshit…You quit your job already? Are you kidding me? You start a new job in Missouri this week? Were you honestly not going to tell me goodbye?"--My end of the conversation, and if you insert intermittent bursts of tears, some Spanish curse words, and overall picture me with very minimal make-up, wind-tunnel hair, a fierce buzz, and swollen ojos then that will paint a very accurate portrait of the mess that was me. And yet he stood there my opposite, seemingly calm and collected, although his eyes and words sold him out, the pain that looked straight into me so strong that I felt as if was being gutted like a fish. "I'm leaving Marbella (my second middle name & his favorite to use), manana, and there's nothing you can do about it. I already have a job and quit the one we share, and I don't know what's going on in my life. I may only be gone a month, or this could be the last time we ever speak, I just have to be away from you. I can't stomach just being your friend, and more than that, I can't even stand to look at you anymore because it hurts me so bad. I have never loved someone like this before, and this isn't your fault, it's just something I have to do for me." -- His end of the conversation, obviously not verbatim because it was laced with español, but basically the summation of a few horas worth of back and forth. And in those final moments together, or at least for now, I saw the flipside of my post's title today, as there was no victory, no celebration in me at the fact that when he sees my cara that it hurts him, literally vice grips his heart so tight each time that he can't breathe around me, had to quit his job and leave not only our town, but the entire state of Indiana because my face gives him hell. And honestly, I think that just makes me the devil. I have never felt more to blame for something than I do this, even though he and I were never in a relationship, and I made it very clear, even until the bitter end, that we would not be able to make an anything work more than being amigos and co-workers. And yet, and yet, I know that in some respect, I am at fault, for not understanding clearly the culture that I was toying with, not comprehending that saying "Te amo" to someone, even if you do love them is way bigger than friendship, can mean so much to the otro person. But nothing goes unpunished, and watching him drive-off in my rearview, knowing there is as good a chance that I'll never see him again as there is that I will, was the start of my sentence. It will be worse every time I walk into work and see the void where he stood, not hear him ask me about how my night was, even though he hated to hear about me drinking, not see the softness in his eyes when he looked at me, eyes that made me feel hermosa even when I slunk into work disheveled and wearing the noche before all over my face. Had I ever known that when he would say, "You know I love you right," and I would quickly reply, "Of course, I love you too" would never equate the same meaning behind his palabras and mine, I would have never said it. Had I known anything, absolutely anything, I would have protected him, protected me.

 

So, lo siento M., lo siento, lo siento. Eres mi amigo siempre. Te extraño. Hasta luego…