Elephant Ears
I walked past a bakery the other day and saw those gigantic flaky pastries, aptly named elephant ears in the case. Standing outside looking in at them made me think of you, I wondered where you are, how you are, and felt sad.
Such an odd coincidence it was to meet you in Spain. I knew who you were before then, the girl two seats behind me in Spanish class, but I never really like you or so I thought. Then you walked past the window of this little restaurant in Madrid, saw me sitting there alone and immediately ran in and joined me, as if we were best friends and had pre-arranged this fortuitous meeting.
A funny thing happens when you travel abroad and see someone you know, say from your school or hometown, regardless of your previous feelings for that person, upon seeing them on foreign soil, in such an extremely different situation, half way across the world from what you both know, an instant connection is formed and you immediately like them. It was fate.
You slid into the booth as if you were being chased, out of breath and frightened or exhilarated, I couldn’t tell. “I can’t believe it; it’s so good to see you. I’m so lost,” you huffed.
But actually I was found.
I bought you your first elephant ear. “Like the shape of a heart,” you said, breaking it in two. “One half for you, the other for me, two halves of a whole.”
You took me to Pamplona, we ran with the bulls. The coach y coma was more reminiscent of Choo-choo Charlie’s train but it became our home as we rattled through Spain. It didn’t matter where, every day we stopped at a café for café con leche and elephant ears. It was all we could afford, soul mates eating soul food.
We would have split Antonio and Julio if we could have, but decided our friendship couldn’t be halved, but their scooters were great. You laughed, I cried when the mountain ate my favorite flip flops but swimming in the sea with you turned my tears warm and blue.
Back home, you looked for a job and I finished school. America was ugly. It was culture shock, we complained about the awful bread, processed and sliced, and the sun went down far too early. So we drank cheap wine and wondered if the stars were the same ones we saw in Jerez.
A dream job stole you to New York City. I stayed home, got married, had a baby. Fridays I picked you up at the train station, followed by dinner. Old times remembered, new ones promised but the bloom on your rose faded faster than a spinning top.
It wasn’t just baby fat, you thought I stopped caring. Sloppy and slow, I became the weight around your ankle.
Your career clothes reeked of stuffy sophistication and the race with the Jones’. Caught in a rat’s wheel, you seemed to go nowhere fast. You grew leaner, more streamlined and more consumed. Priorities changed, squashed memories under chic shoes.
“Things are changing, you’re changing, I’m worried about you.” I said when you called to say you’re not coming this Friday.
“This is important, it’s my job. Beside you’re not my mother.”
You didn’t come home again until Christmas. You called, I saw your mother’s name on the caller ID. I listened as you spoke gratefully into the machine, “It’s a whirlwind, I can only stay for a few days and the family demands are great. You understand but call me.”
I wondered what happened although I couldn’t blame you, a new life, a mere two hours away but further than Spain. No time for friends, elephant ears and cheap wine. Stuck in the same old, there was another baby coming but you, you cart-wheeled past me on your way to importance.
* Tim McKee has had stories published both in print and online, most recently in Clockwise Cat and Flashshot.
