I wrote this piece on a rainy Tuesday night in Santa Maria de la Ribera, Mexico City, with a beautiful group of writers called Open Projects. This piece is for all you lurkers who loved reading about my love life on Substack!

I deleted Hinge. Next thing, I look at my phone. My archived messages read 58, not 57. I open and scroll down. José (yes, that same dude from last year) has messaged me.

“Hola. No te inventes, soñé contigo.” [Hey, I’m not making it up, I dreamt of you.] Or so I think it means. Just as I was closing the door on dating to finally process my emotional shit. Just as I had had enough. I didn’t respond. Well, almost.

I remembered at least one part of what had happened last year. When I lay sprawled out in my blue sparkly dress and bright orange lace underwear peeking out underneath. On the cracked black faux leather couch in his oblong apartment in Cuauhtémoc, a neighborhood only a short bike ride away in Mexico City. I liked his eyes and his gruff demeanor, yet puppy dog soul, it sounds sappy to say.

But as I displayed myself like a male peacock, selling free tickets to my own exhibition, he reached over me and grabbed his beer. A beer that was already one and a half Mezcal tastings deep (I had hardly sipped mine) and a shot on the rooftop overlooking the Zocalo. In hindsight, I realized he had taken me on our second romantic date so he could try to sell more of his products to the bartenders and the owner there.

Still, I quickly found myself slipping down into the slope of our togetherness. That beer bottle was the only, and fatal, giant obstacle standing in my way. I wanted to fall off the cliff. Roll up into him. Let him drive me home at 2 AM again. Meet his aunt again. But that bottle told me: don’t do it. I had left him hanging off the end of a breakup phone call a few days later.

I asked him what his dream was about. He somehow dodged the question with a simple,

“Era como algo divertido 😈.” [It was like something fun.] Yes, plus, the devil naughty purple emoji. He added,

“Cómo te va? Sigues en México? Ya no estoy tomando desde septiembre, ahora sí podríamos ser una buena pareja. 😬” [How are you doing? Are you still in Mexico? I haven’t been drinking since September, so we could be a good couple now.] After the gritting teeth emoji, he added,

“Qué dices, te dejas invitar a cenar?” [What would you say if I invite you out to dinner?]

I stop in my tracks, trying to resize him up. September. Counting the months. Eight of them. Is this the kind of thing I can get over? Get through? See through? Navigate around?

I dig into the depths of my memory, searching for some other red flag or distasteful attitude he held. He did know a lot about Mexico. He told me about the rancheros in Guerrero, his passion for the delicacies, varieties of edible worms I tried at a bar with him. The agave in Oaxaca. The textiles of Puebla. He knew so much. I saw the world, this magical place, Mexico, in a richer way through his eyes. He always offered me things. Was I hungry? He would Rappi some food to my apartment. Pay for dinner before we stole a kiss together.

I congratulated him on his sobriety, but I was going through my own shit. I wasn’t sure when I would feel ready to see him. Maybe in early June, when I get back from the British Isles.

But three days later, I began to find the idea of him irresistible again. Bright. Tempting, even. But dinner seems formal, doesn’t it? What about going for a walk? Grabbing a juice or a coffee to go. I cannot face a sit-down dinner. My feet and shoes are all worn out. I wonder if he looks different now, and how so? Has he lost weight? He was cute enough before. But I don’t want to pretend to myself that he is a changed man. I saw how close I got to falling for him forever in our last shenanigans. I worry I will let myself succumb fully to that this time.

I want to be pampered and taken home at a reasonable hour. I want his salt-and-pepper beard to kiss me good night and make me feel young and beautiful again. I want to be happy and craved.

I want to see what he is like and who he is now. Has he really changed? Is change even possible?