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“So, guapo, (she emphasized, slowly, for his benefit) do you come to Fonda San Miguel often?”
“Claire-O, kay see.” Bull thought the website of Spanish expressions, idioms, and basic conversational words was really paying off. He’d spent several hours in the office, learning a bit of Spanish just so Isabella would feel at home.
She loved it. “Ay, que bueno! How long have you spoken Spanish?”
“Well, you know,” he said, as he unfolded the napkin, shook it out, and laid it over his lap, “you pick up a thing or two living in Tay-haas, so close to May-hee-ko. I like to consider myself an international man.”
He lied and she thought he was the sweetest thing in the world. “I see. I’m very impressed.” Isabella leaned forward onto her elbows, her head resting on her palms, smiling.
“I know a nice Mexican girl like yourself would appreciate the beauty and class of this place.”
“It is lovely so far,” Isabella said with a coy and knowing grin.
He missed it altogether.
Hold it together, buddy, Bull thought. Just get through dinner and Isabella will have no idea that you can’t speak more than half a dozen Spanish words.
“I’m glad you brought me here. This is my favorite type of food too. Do you know what they call Mexican food in Mexico?” she asked him playfully.
Outwardly, he sat stoic and still, inwardly, he panicked. Shit. I have no idea what the Spanish word for food is. I think it’s coma-something. Coma dida, coma bowl, coma-shit! Hurry, son, think of something before she figures you out!
Isabella saw him sweat, but before he said anything, she answered for him, “food.”
Bull’s still and expressionless face - too expressionless while he sweated inside - broke into laughter. “That’s a good one.”
She smiled, enjoying teasing him. “I think so, too.”
Just as he was about to open up into a joke of his own, the waiter approached them.
“Buenas tardes. Mi nombre es Julio. Estamos encantados de tenerse con nosotros para cenar. Como ha estado su dia antes ahora?”
As the waiter spoke, Bull’s eyes opened wider and wider, and sunk deeper and deeper into his skull. His lips pursed tightly together and he broke down every word as best as he could. Bwaynas, that’s good, right? I bet he said ‘good evening’ or something. All right, next. Gnome-bray is name, his name must be Hooleeyo, Got it. Shit, the rest of it is fucking Greek, err, Spanish. Fuck. Better say something. “See.”
Isabella drew her napkin over her mouth to hide her laughter. She stifled it as quickly as she could.
Julio stared at Bull for an extra-long beat, processing what was going on. He could’ve sworn they were speaking Spanish earlier. Obviously not. Julio blinked, and started again. “Good evening! My name is Julio. We are thrilled that you’re going to have dinner with us. How has your day been so far?”
Bull jumped in, “Moo-ee, bee-inn.”
Julio fought the urge to roll his eyes.
Isabella held up her hand, conversing with the waiter. “El mio tambien fue genial. Gracias para preguntar.”
Bull felt lost and alone in a sea of Spanish syllables.
Julio continued, “That’s wonderful to hear. Can I start you off with some chips and salsa this evening?”
Bull happily answered, “See.”
“Si,” said Isabella as well and Julio dashed off.
Bull picked up his menu and hid behind it, hoping beyond hope that, somehow, however unlikely, Isabella had missed that pitiful display.
She’d noticed and helped him by moving on. He was so precious to her. “So, what’s good here?” She wanted so badly to hear him speak some more Spanish to her.
Bull racked his brain, searching the menu for anything he might have eaten before. Why couldn’t they just have gone to Chipotle? He knew exactly how to say burrito. He thought a bit, then muttered, “Anything with the kway-so on it is moo-ee deelishee-o-so.” He beamed. That was a good one.
“Good to know,” she said as she perused the menu with him. “Have you had any of the antojitos?”
