J. Beaman - The Magazine

I went on a date on Wednesday with the girl from the wedding. I spent the bulk of the day alternating between trying to think of ways I could get out of it and reassuring myself that it’s the right thing to do: good for me, good for my portuguese and good for the universe. I didn’t want to bail because she wasn’t hot. I didn’t want to bail because I didn’t think it would be fun. We had a crazy good time at the wedding. I wanted to bail because I wouldn’t have control. Bad dates in the U.S. are bad and difficult to expurgate yourself from and up there I have a multitude of tools at my disposal. Handy lies. Well timed and placed incoming phone calls from understanding friends. Language. But here? Tenho nada.

But I went. Because I do things. That’s one of the secrets to my quality of life. Do shit, dude. Do things reluctantly and with a churny stomach and a chain-smoking desire but do them. She arrived a half hour late (Ela é Brasilera) and I was three cigarettes and two beers in. She looked amazing. Her hair was wavy (she had straightened it for the party where we met) and wet, draped over her slight shoulders, in a little summer dress. How do you describe a brazilian black (mulata? brown? Minera - a girl from Minas Gerais?) girl without sound offensive or like an douche? I’m going to try and avoid the color cliches (nothing about mocha here) but I’ve never seen women like this. The freckles. Jesus.

We talked awkwardly for a few minutes but then hit a flow (and by flow I mean she talked and I pretended to understand) and then the subject of my parents came up. It always comes up and is never uncomfortable for me and always uncomfortable for everyone else. I usually try to put folks at ease by make a joke or emphasizing my comfort with the conversation. And, I’ll admit, at times is my life I’ve been less than forthcoming with my comfort even managing to wrangle a few tears when dropping it on a well placed second date. But what do I do here? A translation:

“My mother is dead.”

“And your father?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh.”

“OK”

“No, you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, It’s ok. My father…hang on.”

I pulled out my dictionary. Murder murder murder murder murder. Got it. Assassinar. Conjugate it. Simple past. Assassinou.

“My father murdered my mother.”

Wide-eyed she grabbed the dictionary from me to make sure she heard right. She did.

“Wow.”

“And he’s in prison.”

She teared up a little bit and gave me kiss on the cheek.

I’m never going to be able to get rid of this girl. Maybe I won’t want to. Right.