Dame un besito

On the subway yesterday, I saw two indios, probably Mexicans, wearing starched white shirts, one with a crisp cowboy hat. They carried their guitars through the car and sang a traditional song, imploring, "Dame un besito, o dame dos." I started choking up, thinking about Texas.

I miss Fiesta. I want to go buy pumpkin empanadas and dance to oldies. I want to hear Tejano as old trucks pass by.

I sometimes can't bear to think about this place. Is this what I wanted? Is this really my life? My life is so small and dull. It is lost in the vast wash of New York City.

It's occurred to me that wherever I am and whatever I do, I'll be dissatisfied. And perhaps that's what I've wanted all along. Perhaps there is no peace for someone like me.

And perhaps this is why I desire men that are geographically inconvenient. Throughout the day, I calculate the time difference. There are three hours between us. Time zones mark the distance between my heart and myself. I am never devastatingly present. I am never forced to lose hope entirely. To be in one place would be to discover my finite self, so infinitesimal, only five foot eleven inches in the miles of New York, in the unfathomable light years of the universe.