twenty-something

Nothing about Spanglish -- not the film itself, not the experience of seeing it -- sucked outright. But still...

Things with Duncan simmered down about half-way through our dinner at Quizno's, but until then, we hardly spoke to each other. Just enough for him to say, "The road's are bad," and me to reply, "We don't have to go then." But we still went and, as is part of the joy of living in Vermont, we nearly risked our lives on the snowy highway to drive to the theater. We were civil but short with each other until I discreetly pointed out a hot guy at another table. He was part of a foursome of sexy skiers, all college-aged, all still in some kind of ski gear -- but mine was the best. He had a nice, bright blue sweatshirt on. Lots of facial scruff. Some nice blue eyes. He was the shortest of the bunch, too. After I pointed him out to Dunc, the lines of communication seemed to be reopened, and we were back to normal.

So, yes, did I like the movie? I didn't dislike it, but I didn't love it. I hadn't read many glowing reviews, but one of my students told me it was the best film he'd seen all year. I'd assumed he meant 2004 but, in hindsight, maybe he meant '05. It would be my favorite film of the year, then, by default, as it's the only one I've seen thus far this year.

The acting is great. The story is good. There's some good, important (albeit very white-washed) stuff in there about culture, class, and race. It makes you laugh (rather, the trailers make you laugh, as practically all of the funny parts are spoiled in the ads) and, maybe, it makes you a little misty. But it lacks something. Oofmph. Za za zu. Nothing in Spanglish hit me, nothing that said, "Love me!" And so I remain lukewarm.

But there is a good message, somewhere in there, about communication. And about space. That was especially timely with my relationship that day.

So after the movie, we're in the car, waiting for it to warm up. He's just scrapped the windows. I turn to him.

I tell him, finally: "Don't ever walk out on me again."

"OK," he says. He's not giving me much. No eye-roll. No regret. He just complies.

"It's OK to walk away. To need a little space. To get away from me sometimes. But just say that. Don't ever just leave."

"OK." He's looking at me, and I can't read him. "Are we good?"

"We're good."

He puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking spot. As he goes to put it into first, I turn back to him.

"Kiss me."

He hesitates for one moment, and then he does. A tiny peck.

"Now drive away. I think some rednecks in that car saw us."