Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story by Annah Rondon Page B

decided to spend my holidays
bundled up on the couch with my decrepit one-eyed dog, Paco. Seeing my parents had
gone off to Cuba for the holidays, I had come to terms with my Christmas consisting
of a sea of microwaveable pizza and replays of Love Actually, when my friend
Vera called to invite me to this shindig. “There’ll be cute guys there, Annie,”
she insisted after my initial decline, “and those vanilla cream puffs you love so
much.”
    Damn. I did like those cream puffs.
    Three hours later, there I was in a gold dress with my party hat on.
No dead pigs or hookers in sight, seeing as these people were from Ecuador. Vera
was huddled in a corner with a dark stranger I’d never seen, so I was fresh out
of people to talk to, when I made my way over to the buffet and bee-lined my ass
to those cream puffs. Ten minutes later, Vera had introduced me to Adam and I was
thrilled to have left my couch and pajamas behind as I took in his tall frame and
broad shoulders for the very first time.
    There’s something to be said about the effects of alcohol on conversations
that might’ve otherwise never begun. Maybe that’s why it’s called the social lubricant.
Or maybe we’re just not as social as car and toothpaste commercials would have us
believe. The point is, my usual awkwardness laced with liquor had me hitting it
off with Adam sooner than you could say Cheers! at an Irish pub. With brown
eyes that I’m certain brought many a girl to her knees and charm for days, I found
this nail to be precisely what I needed.
    Not yet jaded by years of romantic disappointments and a firm believer
in love conquering all (fuck you, Ivanhoe*), I somehow thought Adam could permanently
remove the memory of Jonah and Madrid from my being. We went on three dates after
meeting, the third being a New Year’s bash we attended at the very same home in
which we first met. That night, I was determined to give Adam a New Year’s he’d
remember (of course by that I mean I’d kiss him passionately at midnight, you pervert).
As you can deduce, I really wanted to like this guy, and it is a well-known fact
that when a girl really likes someone, the cookie jar remains shut longer than usual.**
    *Ivanhoe (or Ivanwhore, as I prefer to call it) is a historical
novel written by Sir Walter Scott published in the 1820s. In short, the main character
falls in love with two women, Lady Rowena and Lady Rebecca, and spends the remainder
of the book trying to choose who he wants to be with, while also engaging in sword
battles with other men and shit. The main message that I remember my professor trying
to convey about this book is whether true love does, indeed, conquer all. I recall
being confused because if you truly love someone you shouldn’t be in love with someone
else, right? Oh, to be young and innocent. You should read it one of these days
if you’re into that sort of stuff, then come back and tell me your thoughts on the
conquers of love and men falling in love with multiple women at once. Assholes.
    **My apologies to those guys that slept with a girl on the first date
and labeled her a slut. She wasn’t a slut. She just didn’t like you enough to wait.
Also, she really wanted to get laid. It happens.
    In true Cuban fashion, Adam and I got to the party late at a
little past 10:00 p.m. We headed straight to the bar for some of that social lubrication
I mentioned earlier and succeeded in being more than tipsy before 2006 arrived.
I felt the sudden urge to “break the seal” right before everyone gathered around
the television to watch the ball drop and headed to the bathroom, relieving myself
for the required minute of liquid dehydration it entails. Upon wiping, it became
evident my monthly companion had dropped by earlier than expected, sending me on
a wild goose chase for a tampon. I spotted Vera by the bar and pleaded for her rescue.
    “I don’t wear tampons, babe,” she shrugged while distractedly making
a martini. “I could give you a