~Madisen~

"¡Cantas bonito, Madicita!" Graciela coos when she catches me singing along to Selena Gomez, stepping into my room as I pat down my freshly showered hair with a towel.

"¡Gracias!" I find myself singing often the past three weeks. I've climbed out of the initial valley of culture shock and am in a coasting phase, riding the top of the parabola.

"Will you and Noah be home for lunch today?" she asks in her warm, melodic Spanish, which is becoming increasingly familiar and comprehensible with each passing day.

Rather than an internal eye roll, a balloon of amusement instead expands in my stomach. I'm beginning to love this woman with her repetitive questions.

"No, we have class at 12:00 in Valpo."

"Okay, then I'll pack up some sandwiches and fruit for your lunch," she replies crisply. "Continue singing!"

I launch back into "Good For You," sensing another presence nearby. Poking my head out the door, I cause Noah to jump in his skin and flush bright pink.

"¡Noah!" I crack up. "¿Qué haces?"

"¡Lo siento!" He rubs his neck. "Uh..." After a moment of hesitation in which he tilts his head sheepishly, then seems to steel his courage, he admits in Spanish with a sly smile: "Uh, yeah. Sorry, I was listening to you sing."

Now I blush. He steps closer to me.

"You always stop when you notice someone is there, so I was hiding."

"You were listening to me sing?" I repeat, paying close attention to the embarrassment painted all over his face. Amusement sparkles through my chest.

"I like hearing you. Your voice is beautiful."

There's a rather charged moment of eye contact between us as I attempt to read the tone behind my low-key roommate's very honest, open words. Noah holds his emotions close, and exchanges are even more challenging to interpret in my non-native language.

"Uh, okay. I'll pretend I don't know you're here and keep singing," I tell him, stumbling over words. "Go away now!"

"What, am I supposed to continue lurking in the hall?"

This makes me laugh really hard. Sometimes Noah does awkward things to embarrass himself, but he always recovers with the most adorable humor.

"No, don't spy on me in the hall. Listen from your room or something!"

Instead, Noah enters my doorway, leaps onto the bed and flashes me a mischievous grin.

"Nopo." He is a massive fan of the Chilean po, a fake word that means nothing but is attached to various words and thrown into practically every sentence. "I can hear you better from here."

Noah has seated himself in an expectant posture, legs dangling from the bed, as if waiting for a recital to begin. I stare at him while he grins back at me, waving a hand in an invitational gesture.

As "We Don't Talk Anymore" plays from the portable speaker, I open my mouth in a moment of spontaneous bravery. But Noah's undivided gaze disintegrates my courage when I draw in breath, and instead of hitting him with the chorus, I chuck the pillow from my desk chair at his head.

"Gah!" He howls in an exaggerated response to the unexpected lump of cotton launched into his face. His voice booms louder than normal as he cracks up. "Madicita! How could you do that?"

"Get out!" I command, laughing as I grab his wrists and haul him towards my door. Noah wriggles out of my grasp with ease but allows himself to be recaptured multiple times. 

"I'm going to listen through the wall with a large glass." The statement starts off matter-of-fact, as I manage to shove him through the doorway, then breaks up on the final words because he can't keep a straight face through the absurdity of our antics. It makes my day whenever I get to witness his stoic exterior ruffled up like this. 

"I'm not singing anymore!" is my retort. "Now let me finish getting ready!"

Shutting the door and cranking up the music, I'm a bit amused to discover my heart pounding with excitement after all the juvenile hand-grabbing. He likes my singing, a smitten little voice inside my head giggles.

After our typical overindulgence at breakfast, we head to the bus stop. A few days a week we ride the micro into Valpo together, since some of our morning classes begin around the same time.

In Latin America, there are no bus schedules, because every possible form of public transportation is in constant motion. A micro with familiar green and white coloring clatters towards us within three minutes. I wouldn't be able to explain how we know this is the correct bus, as there are many varieties of green buses, but we've come to be able to distinguish which one looks right.

"Ask him! Ask if he's going to La Católica," I urge Noah, tugging on his arm.

"Ay, Madicita." He rolls his eyes in a teasing fashion.

"I just like to be sure!"

"It's your turn to ask, then."

"Please, Noacito!" I plead in jest. "I can never pronounce it!"

"Practice makes perfect!" he chirps in English, pulling playfully on my wrist in the same manner I did to him earlier. My pretend glare is met with a subtle wink.

"¡Buenos días! ¿La Universidad Católica de Valparaíso?"

"Sí." The driver nods his head without emotion, and pride rushes into my chest at the successful interaction, so uneventful that the other party barely glanced my direction.

"Buen trabajo." Noah praises me with a touch of sarcasm, putting his arm around my shoulders after we sit down. When we first moved in together, I used to sense my tendency towards physical contact made him uncomfortable. Lately, he has been initiating more physical affection. I like to think that he feels more at ease with me, even a bit flirty, which I don't seem to mind.

"Noah, do you think our Spanish is improving?"

He blinks with an incredulous expression. "Yeah?"

"Like, a little bit... or a lot?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "A lot?"

Apparently, it's obvious to him. In my perception, I continue to struggle through most communication exchanges.

"Remember the first week, we didn't understand anything Graciela said. We were constantly asking her to repeat herself."

"Now she just repeats her questions on the daily," I joke.

"What time will you be home for lunch?" Noah imitates Graciela in a perfect Chilean mom singsong. We both crack up.

I wiggle to the right so I can lean against Noah. He is my favorite person to cuddle. When I'm in his arms, I feel as though nothing could ever harm me.

I'm starting to sense there is something between us; I'm just not sure what to do with the information. He certainly hasn't made any moves since we've been living together. Honestly, I couldn't begin to imagine what's going on in his mind or heart. He can be quite guarded.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, against Noah's leg.

"¡Ay, Madisencita, por favor! Estamos en la micro," Noah teases me, wriggling around as if the vibration is turning him on. I elbow him in the ribs before retrieving my phone. His goofy mood is making me giddy as well.

"Es la Clarita."

Chileans tend to add a playful el/la in front of people's names, the article conveying affection the in the same way as the diminutive -ito ("the Clarita"). This is the first time I have mimicked the practice; it rolled off my tongue instinctively. Noah smirks at me.

"La Clarita," he echoes in quiet singsong, observing the scenes outside the window. "¿Qué dice La Clarita?"

"She's wondering why you posted the picture of us posing like sexy pumas in el Yunque. Wait, what picture is that?"

Noah snorts, eyes glinting with mischief. He's really cute today.

* * *

~Noah~

"God, Noah--seriously?!" Madisen whines, leaning even further into me to see her phone, which I've taken from her in order to search up the seductive jungle cat photo in question.

"It's cute." Madisen, Clara and Flora are perched on all fours surrounding Daria's host dad, Luis, caressing his muscled chest with their "paws." Luis, immune to the touch of the three beautiful girls, poses with his tongue out, waist-deep in a tiny turquoise swimming hole. Behind him, Daria adds bunny ears with her classic subdued quarter-smile.

Our weekend trip with Daria's family to el Yunque, a hot, dry region a couple hours outside Viña del Mar, was incredible. Everyone was in one of those joyful, dangerously elated moods sometimes provoked by nature, blossoming friendship, freedom from responsibility, or--in my case--sweet, unrequited love.

I swipe to the next picture, which is of Madisen balanced on a flat rock by the edge of the water, fully in cat character, pretending to bathe herself behind the ears with her paw.

"Noah!" she shrieks. "How could you post that?" I move the phone out of reach as she grabs for it, and suddenly she's got her hand on my leg as her body presses all around me. The warm flesh of her fingers wraps around my wrist, the scent of coconut drowning me as the micro rattles us to our stop in front of La Católica.

I swear to God she goes breathless too as our eyes lock briefly.

Or maybe I'm just praying to God for it to be true.

"Let's go." I hastily push her off me, feeling blood rushing places it shouldn't, guiding her off the bus with my hands light on her arms as I walk close behind.

I drop Madisen off at her first class in silence, resisting the urge to take her hand. This stubborn, delusional electricity coursing through my body attempts to convince me that she wouldn't object--that she would slip her palm into mine, our fingers lacing together, and squeeze.

Rather than being a distraction, my euphoria after all the physical contact with Madisen this morning has me in a strange, hyper-focused mental state. For the first time ever, I can understand every part of the professor's lecture, and all the concepts are clicking for me when I start in on the lab write-up.

Wait for me outside of film class. I have to buy something, I text in Spanish before leaving class.

Messaging Madisen no longer makes me nervous, only excited.

I have a half-hour to scarf down the sandwiches Graciela packed and stop by the kiosk nearest to our next class.

"¿Comiste?" I ask if she ate, jogging towards where Madisen is dutifully waiting for me outside of class. Her outfit today--jeans and a cream sweater--is uncharacteristically simple, but my hormones are still raging out of control at the way everything clings to her curves.

"Of course," she chirps, keeping the conversation in Spanish, as always. "I saved this for you."

She hands me one of her enormous chicken salad sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and aluminum foil. I step in to receive her leftovers, standing closer than is justified by the situation.

"You couldn't eat both of them?" I jest. Madisen has an impressive appetite, but even I can barely manage to finish off all of Graciela's boxed lunches in one sitting.

The professor is already addressing the class, so we slip into two empty seats near the back of the auditorium. I spot the rest of our friends several rows ahead of us.

"Are we late?" Madisen asks, puzzled. It's rare for professors here to actually arrive on time to their lectures.

I shrug, glancing at my watch.

"I can never understand him," Madisen sighs, leaning her head against my shoulder as she laments her struggle to comprehend our film history professor's muffled, echoey monologue.

Again, I wiggle my shoulders, holding out my palms in a gesture of unconcern.

"Does it matter?"

The level of rigor in this class is far lighter than any courses we have experienced at Whitman. We watch a film, the professor lectures on the film, and then we have to post at least three comments in the online discussion forum. Even if you understand nothing of the movie or lecture, crafting a decent response in the forum is fairly effortless.

Madisen is more of a goodie two-shoes than I am, however. We are both strong students, but she tends to play by the rules. I'm far lazier, unless a topic truly interests me.

"You're not actually mad about the cat pictures, are you?" I whisper, slipping Madisen the handful of Super 8 I purchased on the way to class.

"No. I could never be mad at you, Noah. Especially when you bring me chocolates."

I grin at her, daring to spread my legs out a bit, creating contact between our outer thighs. She unwraps a Super 8 and bites into it, smiling back at me as our professor drones on in muddled Spanish.

"Oh, it's a cookie!" Madisen delights in the unexpected wafery crunch in the center of the chocolate, ever impressed by life's simplest joys.

"Es rico. Está rico." She self-corrects her use of ser to estar.

I clutch the armrests on either side of me as her breathy words tickle my ear, instantly stirring up my unhinged hormones.

"Want one?"

"Nah. I want real food."

"You just ate!"

"I want a churrasco."

Madisen elbows me, and one of the red-packaged wafers flies out of her hands, dropping into my lap. She reaches to retrieve it on instinct, seems to realize the direction her hand is moving, and stops. A slight blush dusts over her cheeks like powdery pastel-pink snow. I feel all shivery and amped up.

"You're hungry already? Did you run this morning? You've been exercising a lot lately."

Just releasing my pent up energy, Madicita.

"Actually, churrascos sound delicious." She misuses the adverb actualmente, a false cognate meaning currently or at the present time. It's so precious I want to scoop her into my lap.

"Actualmente" I echo softly, without really meaning to.

"I know, that was wrong," she concedes with a carefree giggle. "¿De hecho? ¿En realidad? ¿De verdad?"

Every time she leans in with a chocolatey whisper, a fresh wave of goosebumps washes over every inch of my skin.

"Let's go later then--for churrascos," I venture, attempting to keep my cool as everything inside me gets more and more stirred up.

"Yeah, let me text Daria and those guys," she replies, gesturing to where our friends are seated.

Not exactly what I had in mind, but sure.

Madisen sends a quick text, then gives me a thumbs up.

"Now, shh!" she admonishes. "We have to pay attention to the movie."

"You're the one who's been talking to me!" I chide back, pushing her thigh. Does her whole system rush with vibrations when I touch her?

She attempts to shove me with her shoulder, but the armrest between us creates an obstacle, causing her to bump into air.

"Suave," I mock.

"I don't think that's how you say it," she snorts, and I can tell by her quivering voice and squiggly eyebrows that she is on the verge of breaking into giddy laughter.

Everything between us today has felt so fun.

Madisen's phone lights up.

"Daria says her dads can drive us to the restaurant, because they want to go also."

"Awesome." They are quite entertaining to hang out with.

Madisen wriggles around as if uncomfortable, huffs adorably, and grabs aggressively at the armrest separating us. Discovering it's moveable, she flips it vertical and snuggles into me. Heaven.

"Jonie plans to invite Brock," she reads in monotone whisper from a new message on her screen, then bolts upright. "Oh, no way! I can't."

"I thought they couldn't stand each other."

I guide Madisen back into cuddle position.

"They have been flirting. I guess every other girl from the group has rejected him already. Ugh, Jonie, why?" she groans. "Where are your standards?"

"Eh, what's a little racism and misogamy?" I quip. I don't really give a crap about Jonie or Brock when I've got Madisen in my arms like this.

We finally shut up to focus in on the movie. Madisen readjusts her head against my chest, nuzzling into me like a kitten. I'm in physical heaven, emotional hell and mental purgatory all at the same time. For the life of me, I can't figure out if I'm getting closer and closer to Madisen's romantic heart or further and further friend-zoned.

She takes a sudden interest in my bracelet, running her fingers across the silver designs in the dimness of the auditorium. Madisen is always touching things; she's very sensory.

"Did you get this when we visited the Mapuche village?"

"Yeah." My pulse explodes as she traces all around the chain, simultaneously grazing the skin of my wrist in the process. I do a piss-poor job of controlling my physical reactions, from my erratic heartbeat to the breathy gulp of air sucked in, not to mention everything happening to me further down. Swiftly descending from heaven to hell.

As the credits roll, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

It's Graciela, letting us know that her son Jonathan arrived for a surprise visit. She wants to know what time we will be home for lonche.

There's a picture of them attached, Graciela's eyes lit up with joy. Jonathan is tall, fit and annoyingly good-looking. Fuck!

He fucking better not flirt with Madisen or I swear to God I'll strangle him!

Except that I won't; I'll probably just sit there like an emotionless robot as another guy who isn't chicken shit invades on the love of my life.