Another Brunch with Pablo Neruda

The line at Cody’s is out the door. He huffs when he sees, of course.

Relax, I say. We’ll get a seat.

Not a booth, he says. His double-chin becomes a triple.

I talk to the hostess. It’s a 40 minute wait. I politely request a booth, and we get one in half an hour.

This has nothing to do with him.

I know what I want, but Pablo is still deciding.

It’s this way every Sunday. The juevos rancheros or the French toast with a side of sausage. He’s convinced the French toast is better, but he’s in the mood for eggs. This is how it goes. I say, why not get the French toast with eggs?

He frets. He worries too much about calories.

I want it all, he says, which I’ve learned means savory and sweet.

Get the French toast, and I’ll give you some of my eggs.

Can I have a bite of your toast? he asks.

Yes, I say. You can have a bite of my toast to wash down your French toast.

He doesn’t like my sarcasm. Well can I? he asks.

Yes, I say. Of course. I pat his hand and he sighs.

He settles down, takes out his journal. In a moment he’ll be licking his pen.

Now? I ask.

I’ll forget the line, he says.

I start throwing out words: Pinochet, albatros, Charlemagne–

Please, he says. It’s important.

I stop distracting him and catch the eye of the waitress.

More cream, I mouth.

Pablo licks his pen, but as always he’s run out of ink.

This damn thing, he says. Help me remember: the little drops of anguish will all run together…

The little drips of English will run altogether, I say. He knows I’m teasing and this will help.

Our food comes and the French toast looks magnificent. It’s covered in walnuts and though it’s not what he ordered he takes it anyway. My eggs are poached to perfection. The toast is warm and buttered and I give him the first jelly-less bite.

I don’t deserve you, he says.

No, I say. You don’t.

He does not want to talk, and he takes his time with his food. We have several cups of coffee.We’ll be here at least an hour.

He’s wiping syrup from his plate with his thumb when I tell him I am pregnant. He takes it well, considering. Then I confess that I am joking, and he laughs, pretending to be angry. We sleep together often, but I am on the pill.

Children do not scare him as much as he fears drying up.