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

and they
had fancy sandwiches without the crust and chicken kabobs plus those little butter
cookies with the merengue on top, which in a way is almost as good as being famous.
    Almost.

    Possibly unnecessary sidenote: After finishing this chapter, I
realized I’d lost my phone before saving the picture of me at my fancy famosity
party. No need to worry, though, because I did what any normal person would and
reenacted the scene for your viewing pleasure. You should totally feel special because
I made chicken kabobs at home, went to the hotel where they threw the soiree, and
took the above picture. So maybe it was a little awkward when people saw me pull
chicken and peppers on a stick from my purse, but that’s just the kind of girl I
am, true to her art and all. That and once the novelty of my weirdness wore off
and everyone resumed their evening, I turned my back to those fools and went to
town on that motherfucking kabob. Some would venture to say it tasted like chicken.
    I say, it tasted like famosity.

Unexpected Turbulence
    The morning after, I slowly put myself together around
eight and absconded into the city alone after sleep eluded me all night.
It was our last day in Madrid and though I longed to be near Jonah’s warmth, the
safest way to avoid getting burned is to keep away from the sun at all costs. I
spent a few hours at a salon doing my nails and killing time. After that, I explored
a small market run by gypsies near our hotel for souvenirs and other trinkets. I
returned to our room sometime around two, Olivia and Jonah nowhere to be found.
There was a note on the door I didn’t bother to read, and when my shoes were off
and the curtains closed I went under before my head even touched the pillow. Upon
waking, the sun was beginning to wave its impending farewell and I looked at the
clock to find it was nearly eight. In a hazy state, I decided to go back to sleep,
but the phone rang just as I was setting the alarm for the following morning and
reaching for an Ambien.
    Two hours later, I’d packed all my belongings in a suitcase and placed
it carefully near the door, the hope to avoid rushing on a morning that would surely
come with a hangover courtesy of Grey Goose and a broken heart alive. I assessed
my reflection in the mirror and slipped out of the hotel to meet Gabriel at the
lobby just before my friends returned.
    “And here I thought you had better plans than to see me tonight,”
he smiled, wrapping me in a hug that lasted forever.
    “What better plans than you?”
    He locked his hand with mine and we walked outside, our destination
a flamenco show at an old mansion in the outskirts of the city. When we arrived,
someone handed me a small glass of dark liquor that smelled of cinnamon. Red and
yellow lanterns hung above us from the trees surrounding the patio, a wooden stage
erected in the center. The air was crisper outside of the city, and I wrapped a
silk shawl embroidered with flowers I’d purchased earlier in the day around me.
Gabriel explained the house belonged to his grandfather, who was a flamenco enthusiast,
and hosted these shows monthly to his friends and their guests.
    We were introduced shortly after, and he regaled me with stories about
his trips to Cuba, wrinkles marked with mischief lining his face every time he laughed.
A gentle breeze blew away my sorrows for a moment, and the heaviness in my soul
lifted as soon as the first guitar began to play, heels filled with nails pounding
violently on the stage floor. Gabriel squeezed my hand and asked if I would consider
staying in Madrid another week with him. I promised him to think about it and kissed
his hand, knowing that staying would only weave another thread of pain to an already
fatal story.
    Sometime later we got to Joy, grabbing a table already reserved for
us and getting ourselves situated. In typical Spanish fashion, the nightclub was
almost empty even though it was nearly midnight. I had always found it odd how parties
on the