Enfrijoladas

Erik Peters is a father and avid mediaevalist from Vancouver, Canada. His writing is influenced by late antiquity, his family, and his students. Erik has been featured in Coffin Bell, Zoetic, Beyond Literary Words, and Thirty West. You can check out all Erik's work at erikpeters.ca

On our third date I told Ana I couldn’t afford any more dinners out. She smiled.

“So... your place or mine?”

Spanish laughter and the smell of refried beans greeted me at the apartment door. Ana’s roommates, Irma and Alessandra, planted kisses on my cheeks, ignoring my stiffly outstretched hand.

Dinner was enfrijoladas topped with avocado and crumbled cheese. The girls giggled as bean sauce splattered on my shirt. Broken English and faltering Spanish swirled around the table.

After dinner, Irma turned on the stereo. Latin rhythms enlivened the air. She whispered something to Ana who blushed and took my hand, half hoisting me to my feet.

“What are we doing?”

“Dancing.”

“Uh...”

“Here,” she took my other hand, “like this. Lift your foot. Bien. Okay, now...”

Irma and Alessandra clapped as Ana and I shuffled across the living room. Halting steps smoothed. Muscles found rhythm. Laughter replaced instruction.

* * *

Sarah beams from her highchair.

“Awa, awa, awa!” she flails, spraying refried beans, avocado, and cheese in all directions.

“I think we’re done,” smiles Ana, unhinging the highchair tray.

I set Sarah on the floor, wiping her face and hands amid indignant squawks. As I straighten, she waves up at me.

“Dada, Dada!”

“Okay, up we go,” I half-hoist her to her feet. “Let’s walk over to Mama.”

Sarah’s fingers wrap around my thumbs.

“Okay, lift your foot. Good.”

Halting steps carry us across the living room. Ana claps.

“¡Bien, mi cariño!”

Refried beans and Spanish laughter fill the apartment.