Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Breakfast? Orange juice? Croissant?

— No —I say— today I want fruit and bacon.

— Okay —you say— coming right up.

And then you go and take an hour to make me feel guilty for sending you out by yourself. I hear sirens and dread:

— He crossed the street to bring home the bacon and got run over by a bus. Now what’ll I do? I’ve only got enough in checking to cover next month’s rent. Then I’ll have to sell everything and move. Now what?

And worst of all, I’m in the dark, sitting, rocking, fearing your death in the dark because it doesn’t occur to you to turn the lights on. I have to admit I’m relieved when you come back, but as soon as I see, I mean, hear, the keys fumbling in the door, in the dark, in the damned dark, I want to kill you, but the smell of coffee holds me back. Bless his heart — I say — after all, he risked his life for me.

— Breakfast —you say with a smile on your face. You open the white paper bag, and out of the rustling comes…

— What is this?

— Chocolate. Oh, it’s too late for breakfast, chipa. It’s lunchtime. No bacon. No eggs. Have a chocolate bar. Quick energy. I brought you vitamins. Take a swig. They’re good for your bones.

— Where is my orange juice?

— No orange juice. Vitamin C. It’s the same thing.

— Not to me.

— No seeds. No pulp.

— I want my orange juice. Juicy red with its pepas.

— Seeds.

— And I want fresh squeezed. I don’t want chocolate. It gives me grains.

— Pimples.

Why? Tell me, why do you insist on bringing me breakfast in bed when you can never satisfy me? I’m sure that there are oranges and bacon and scrambled eggs out there. It’s just that you’re too eager to disappoint me. As if I couldn’t walk to the corner on my own two legs and buy my own breakfast. It’s a pleasure for me to wake up in the morning, alone, find five dollars and my keys in the kitchen, dress up, brush my teeth, wash and dry my face with a towel, open the door as my stomach growls, ride the elevator, check the bills in the mailbox, relieved that I don’t have to pay them, buy the Post at the nearest newsstand, head to the Greek, read the gossips with the pleasure of a toasted bran muffin with melted butter and a cup of coffee, relax, come home, and start working. Good old times, not so old after all. But here you are, again, interrupting my creative process. And when you take me to Toritos after I’ve been dieting all day long, the first thing you do is open the menu and clear your throat.

— What’s the matter, hon? Frog in your throat?

Take a sip of water.

I find that cough suspicious. Cold. Phlegm. No. Ahem-ahem. Your face turns red. Whenever Jabalí cleared his throat, he was pulling some kind of fast one. If there was a cough, there was a lie.

— I have to leave today —he’d say. Ahem. Department meetings. Ahem. You know how it is. Ahem. Wish you could come along. Ahem. But they’re professors.

Love affairs. Sneaking around with that little bitch of his. I knew he was lying, but I enjoyed playing along, knowing he was lying. But now, ahem, what’s this new little cough about? We’re sitting in the booth and, I swear, I’m totally cool with the mariachis and the candles.

— What should I order, chipo?

— Whatever you want, chipa.

— I don’t know if I should get the gaucho steak or the trio dynamico.

— Get whatever you want, chipa. What should I get?

— Whatever you want, chipo.

— Here comes the waitress.

— Let her wait. We haven’t decided yet.

— I know what I want: the gaucho.

— Ahem, but it comes with garlic bread and fries. Ahem. You are on a diet. Let me see if I have enough to cover it. Sorry. Ahem. You’ll have it next time. Or you’ll have to select between the steak or the piña colada.

— Piña colada, then.

— But, you understand, we’ll have to share the piña colada.

— Hurry up, please, it’s time.

— Just a moment, please. We haven’t made up our minds. For the time being, please, ahem, bring the lady a piña colada.

— Just one?

— Yes, with two straws, and for me, ahem, a frosty glass of tap water with crushed ice, no cubes. You see, ahem, if you hadn’t ordered the piña colada, we could have had two dishes. Now, ahem, I’m running short. Plus the tip. I need a better job. Eating out every night. Did I send out my student loan payments last week?

— I told you to.

— Or is it this week? Wait, I made a deposit last week, which means no problem, it’s due next week.

— Have you decided what you want?

— I’ll have the steak.

— Ahem, no, we’ll have fajitas instead. It’s the same beef, but we can share fajitas.

— Yes, fajitas, thank you.

— How about another drink?

— Just water, please, and the bill. How much do I leave for a tip? 15 % plus tax. Do you know if I paid the credit cards? Kika, we must stop eating out. You should learn how to cook. It would be so much healthier, and we would save so much time and money.

Why take me out only to leave me hungry, unsatisfied? I can’t order what I want from the menu. This is impotence, frustration. Your frustration, your indecision. Look what you’ve done to my silverware. Hands off, I told you. Why don’t you use the set you stole from my brother? My grandmother’s silverware is sacred. I want to have memories and cause for respect. If I have no silver, they respect me less, and if I have no children, even less and less. You have to have something to pass down, so they come around and take care of you when you’re old. They’re precious. You have to take care of them.

— I wanted to surprise you, but you didn’t even notice.

— You promised me you wouldn’t use them again except for special occasions.

— A champagne dinner for two to celebrate the publication of the book by Yale. You didn’t even notice the silver then, when you were supposed to, you went ahead and called Mona and just talked and devoured without tasting the meat. Did you even notice that I left the table?

— I’m sorry. Listen, I’m sorry. Don’t make me feel guilty.

— Did you notice how tender the fillet was?

— I’m sorry. But today I woke up, and breakfast is served on the table, you are not there, and I look at the bagel with cheese, and I see my silver fork tarnished. What? My silver used for bagels? You don’t respect my wishes. You do whatever you please. Whatever you damn well please.

— You said you weren’t hungry, then you asked for more.

— Cheese.

— Why didn’t you tell me? I could have cooked you rice and beans.

— Okay.

— Rice and beans?

— You call that rice? It was soup and beans.

— That’s what you get.

— I told you to do it right next time. But I didn’t tell you to dump it out. I was hungry, and in a minute my rice and beans disappeared.

— I wanted it.

— You had it.

— I’m hungry.

— Tough luck.

— Why do you tantalize me and leave me panging? Then for a little smack in the head, you fall down and play dead at my feet.

— It was supposed to be a coma.

— I don’t want to talk to you.

— My lungs were pumping, and my heart was beating.

— I took you for dead. Not one second, not two, not three. Agony was climbing inside my head. Will I ever regain my self-control? Will I ever find peace of mind again? I wasn’t outside myself. I wasn’t inside myself. I had left myself. Then you bellied up with a grin on your fat face. And I got so angry, I ran out, cold as it was, without a coat. I told you: