~Madisen~

After coffee with sugar and cream, croissants and chamomile tea with honey, we have yet to exhaust even a sliver of potential conversation topics. Ignacio is full of side-splitting anecdotes about every ridiculous job he has held since high school, and he flits from questions to jokes to tangents to eavesdropping on other tables' conversations. 

Despite committing every social faux pas that would normally grate on my nerves—constantly interrupting me, over-explaining his stories with pointless details, and touching me often—none of his actions seem to bother me.

 I'm entirely enthralled with him.

Our bums become numb long before the conversation runs dry, and Ignacio suggests we walk along the beach to watch the sunset. As we exit the café, he takes my hand in his with complete confidence, not for a moment second-guessing the gesture.

My mind flashes to Noah and all the times recently when I suspected he wanted to take up my hand as we walked between the micro and the Mendez house, coming and going to classes and outings. Was he truly so inhibited by fear of rejection, or was it simply never in his plans to take our friendship to the level of romantic relationship?

God, how foolish I've been, again.

I'm so naïve. Falling for a gay guy in high school, misinterpreting the chemistry of deep friendship as romantic love. Allowing Donovan, in the fall semester of sophomore year at Whitman, to manipulate me into having sex before I was ready, only to watch the relationship fizzle and die after an incredibly awkward night.

This is the only first date I have ever been on that hasn't been excruciatingly uncomfortable. In fact, I'm so at ease that I have no trouble understanding most of Ignacio's Spanish. It helps that his communication style is expressive, his enunciation far better than most Chileans. He is conscientious of explaining the "chilenismos" he utilizes (although by this point in the program, I'm familiar with most of the common ones), along with clarifying idiomatic expressions and obscure vocabulary terms.

"Where do you work now?" I ask as the tip of the orange sphere melts into the shimmery ocean, surrounded by puffy purple clouds.

"I'm a waiter at an Italian restaurant here in Valpo. I have Mondays off, which is why I wanted to get in touch with you today. I work every other night until 10:00 or 11:00pm."

Based on the number and variety of jobs he has worked, I'm getting the impression that Ignacio is a few years older than I am, though it doesn't feel uncomfortable or anything. His spirit is youthful, but he clearly has more lived experience than I do.

Ignacio plops onto the sand, his body taking the shape of a gingerbread man that can't manipulate its limbs. His feet raise into the air as he tilts backwards more than he meant to, but rather than being embarrassed, he merely releases this cute little "woohoo!" and throws me a carefree grin. He pats the sand next to him, and I join.

Watching the final layer of buttery sun blend into the sea, blurred by smudges of misty clouds in a spectrum of bluish, purplish, pinkish grays, he scoots closer to wrap his arm around my shoulder.

"I'm not ready to take you home just yet."

I smile at him, nervous that he's looking to make out with me already. Instead he says:

"Should we go have some drinks? We can invite Daria!"

There's a part of me that tenses with suspicion at the mention of my friend's name, those tiny needles of jealousy pricking me at the fact that he called her first and now wants to call her again, in the middle of our date.

I remind myself of the current reality; the left half of Ignacio's body is less than a centimeter from my right side as we sit together at the beach, watching the sinking sun. He has spent the afternoon with his eyes glued to my face, fully engaged in our conversations, his shoe searching for mine under the table, hands on my arms at every opportunity. Now, as he dials Daria's number, he allows his leg to tilt into mine.

Recent events with Noah have shaken my sense of confidence to interpret reality... and yet, here I am, longing to melt into the warm, magnetized energy crackling between Ignacio and me.

The next thing I know, he has gathered up Daria and two of his friends, and we're heading to a trendy bar for wine, appetizers and live music. My jealousy swiftly evaporates as I observe the jocular manner in which Ignacio interacts with the three other females, as compared to the doe eyes he's casting in my direction, his constant proximity and the way his voice drops an octave as he releases fluttery compliments into my ears like lacy-winged butterflies.

"¡Me encanta Daria—es súper bakán!" Ignacio exclaims to me at one point, gulping the last swallow of wine from his glass. My stomach circles 360 degrees, but in a good way this time; it's his ability to openly say how he feels towards people that has my heart rate elevated as the wine dissolves all my insecurities.

My even-keeled friend grabs my arm after we head upstairs for a restroom break, a sparkling glint in her eyes.

"Ignacio!" is all she says.

"I know!"

It's at that moment that I know in my wine-flushed body that something significant is brewing.

As much affection as I developed for Noah over the past weeks, tricking me into believing our feelings for one another were growing deep, the sensation was nothing like what I'm experiencing tonight with Ignacio.

Tall and solid, yet still warm and squishy, Ignacio glides forward to receive me as I descend the staircase. His hand is velvet in mine, despite all his tales of hilarious disasters working in manual labor over the years. We float to the middle of the bar where a few couples are dancing. His confidence while spinning, swaying and dipping me to the pumping Cumbia is exhilarating. There's something about how he holds me that exudes complete control.

He's not eager to grope me or desperate to press his body against mine, yet his dark eyes, exploring my face as the flutes flit through runs like harmonic rain, express the intensity of our connection.

Every time I'm certain he is about to kiss me, Ignacio performs an alternate action that is every bit as intimate, stirring up a fiery storm in my abdomen. A steadying breath, his forehead pressed to mine; a small whimper of surrender against my earlobe. At the end of our dance, he laces his fingers into mine, pulling me in so we stand as close as possible without making contact; he sighs as if taking in the moment, almost overwhelmed.

When we make it back to our seats, his friends Liliana and Leila smirk at us with bobbing eyebrows. Both of the Chilean girls are short and chunky with sleek black hair and sport heavy makeup. I have the impression they are at least a half-decade older than Daria and me.

"Cuidado, Ignacio." Leila's playful warning to be careful causes another stirring in my chest, which is warm with alcohol and unfamiliar emotions.

He scoots his stool close to mine, finds my wrist under the table and rests our clasped hands on his lower thigh. It's a simple gesture, but the fact that he wants part of me touching part of him gets me amped up in ways it shouldn't. Ignacio, however, continues chatting and telling stories as if the contact is nothing to him.

Yet, every few minutes he peers at me, caressing my hand, blinking with snow globe eyes that contain an entire scene of possibility playing out.

"I've got class tomorrow," Daria announces, yawning, during a rare lull in conversation.

"And we have to work tomorrow, don't we?" Liliana says to Leila as the two snicker at their own naughtiness, downing the rest of their wine.

"I can be late," Leila quips, shrugging.

"You always are, sister."

"You two are sisters?" I ask in surprise, always twenty-seven beats behind what is happening.

They look at me in the exact same manner, tilt their heads and burst out laughing as I blush.

"She's so cute!" Leila puts her hands over my cheeks in a grandmotherly fashion, then leans in for an affectionate hug. She slaps Ignacio on the shoulder with the back of her hand before leaving him with a departing cheek kiss.

A true friendship is evident among the three of them, and I have sensed quite a bit of nonverbal communication taking place throughout the entire night, much of it seeming to do with me.

"Be smart," Liliana tells Ignacio as she puts her cheek to his to say goodbye.

As we turn towards one another at the same time, he interweaves both hands into mine and maneuvers his dressy tennis shoes between my boots.

"One more walk on the beach before I let you go home to Viña?"

The timbre of his voice varies along a parabola sound wave throughout the night, crispy light while telling jokes, strong as dark chestnut wood when making a point, low and raspy as he whispers directly to me.

"I have class tomorrow too, but yes." We grin together for an extended few seconds, hands and legs in electrifying contact, before making a move to stand up.

He stops at a corner market to purchase box wine, asking the cashier for two plastic glasses. Ignacio strikes me as the kind of person who knows exactly what he wants at any given moment and goes for it. I don't have the impression that he always gets what he wants, however. Underneath his stories laced with humor is an underlying tone of melancholy, sprinkled with hints that his life has been riddled with tragic obstacles.

It's freezing as we stride through the sand, the choppy black-blue waves illuminated by a lumpy moon, but the cold doesn't penetrate because I'm sizzling with wine, hormones and the sensation of falling in love, even though I know the last one is absurd.

We sit inside a cave-like rock structure, shielded from the wind, and Ignacio pours us each a cup of cheap red wine.

I only take a sip, because my head is already buzzing. The image of a map of Chile flashes in my mind. I see myself in the south of the long, skinny country, my bottom sliding on ice down a snowy mountain. Then in a bikini soaking in teal waters, not a care in the world. Laughing like a lunatic at grapes, sweating in the dry heat next to llamas and ostriches. Nine hours on a bus, gradually freezing over as we moved north, lighting on fire again at the club, only to wake up again in the chill of misunderstanding and have my heart trampled over.

Now is the perfect moment to be cautious, to be smart--as Liliana and Leila suggested--but instead, I twist my plastic cup of wine into the icy sand and allow my bent legs to fall towards Ignacio. He scoots towards me, rubbing my arms through layers of clothing to warm me up.

"We should get going; I don't want you to turn into an ice statue out here."

He tugs my hands to help me stand up.

"I sort of want to call you Little Red Riding Hood. Can I call you that?"

I chuckle because of the time that Yes-Boy crashed into me in Recreación and threw the nickname my way, without permission. It sounds completely different coming from Ignacio's lips. Completely alluring.

"Yes," I giggle.

We continue to gravitate towards one another, the dark rocks at our backs forming an incapsulated space, the sound of waves breaking in the distance.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" he hums, bringing his hands to my waist.

"Tomorrow? I thought you said you work."

"After work. I'll try to get off early."

"Okay." My heart is pounding.

Every nerve ending activates as our lips meet; I can feel each millimeter of his flesh separately, a million atoms of pleasure contained within one thin line of contact. It's slow out of necessity, as if we're paralyzed by the sensation, and it takes us both a great deal of effort to initiate further motion. He moves his lips into mine once... and back out with a sharp breath from both of us... twice, deeper... then painfully breaking the contact again... the third time finally pushing his tongue into mine. We again freeze in position, our tongues together, the flesh zinging electrons of overpowering voltage between us. My throat rushes with that feeling of "too much," almost as if I want to throw up. It's too much, and I need so much more.