In Germany, he said,
I wonder what you would think about me if you could understand my language.
When his mother came into the room one day, as I began to learn, she asked for Kuss; and I went to her and began to give her kisses all over her face. She laughed my name and said, no, and pointed to the pillow on the bed, Kissen.
In Morocco, with him, we listened to Oum Kalthoum in my kitchen. I got carried away in melodies as I chopped the carrots, and he, passionate, scrolling on his phone, singing along to an Egyptian singer in Arabic.
He said ¡dame besa!—and puckered his lips, and I laughed because he was black American like me, and didn’t speak Spanish.
We broke up—him, him and all of him, and I slammed all the apps closed, wondering if I’d ever love someone who spoke my language.
Then, I fell in love again, in Haiti, and I told him,
I love Reese’s Cups. King Size.
And before I got out of his car for the night he gestured with his eyes to the back. Get your cups, he said.
But when I looked back, there were just a package of cups, red party cups. Not Reese’s cups, and I began to laugh.
It’s the wrong cups! I laughed. But thank you, I said, my heart melting; that’s so sweet.