in some ways, being with him was like being with you -- as if somehow being with you could be replicated half a world away. like the day he walked me to the bank, or the day he walked in while i was standing there, in front of the tv, half naked and blushing purple. his unexpected presence did not scare me. it excited me. sort of like you did, when you walked up those stairs in your kilt and nothing more. like everytime i saw you after that. like everytime i saw him after that. i think it's good that we didn't speak the same language. still, when he calls, i smile at the thought of talking to him in my broken spanglish, and he to me, in his broken espingles. my friends don't seem to believe that everything that happened there, and since -- which wasn't much, really -- was an accident. like the fact that he called the other day. they don't believe that him giving me his number was an accident. nor that me giving him mine was.

i should call him tomorrow, just to say hi.

deseo tocar su estrella otra vey.