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Francisco's name appeared first. Scrawled in bubble letters with a heart-dotted "i," but respectfully smaller than the adjacent No War on Iraq, it caught my eye. I paused, and for one stroller-pushing moment, I yearned for the exquisite breath-snatching nausea of new love. The consuming adolescent compulsion to claim one's object in capital letters and permanent ink.
The next week brought a footnote, Yo quiero Francisco. And soon after, a little bolder. N. quiere F. I considered this new clue, comparing the handwriting, analyzing the heft and slant of the letters as I sipped my nonfat latte. Was F Francisco? Would N reveal herself, or pine in silence? I began making regular detours past the graffiti wall on my morning walks.
"She'll die if he finds out she loves him, and she'll die if he doesn't," I explained to my husband as I eradicated an entire menagerie of miniature stuffed animals from the tangled covers of our bed. He wisely kept quiet, but couldn't quite keep the smirk from his eyes. I smacked him with a second-hand talking turtle. "A — Apple," lectured the pedantic toy. "B — Ball." We were halfway through the alphabet by the time our shrieking laughter woke the baby. When N finally disclosed her identity as Nina, I punished my husband by withholding this exciting new intelligence, revealing it casually two days later over meatloaf. He rolled his eyes and did an ear finger twirl to our three-year-old in response.
And then it happened. Writ large in a fat red heart were the happy words Nina + Francisco. I nearly skipped home. In a reversal of my former punitive policy, I called my husband at work with the news. I got voicemail.
Only a week later, the love affair seemed to stumble. An unfamiliar word appeared parenthetically in the heart next to Francisco's name. Traidor. I hurried home to my Spanish Dictionary, fearing the worst. Traitor, I read. One who betrays. I felt my eyes sting with tears, and allowed myself the guilty pleasure of vicarious self-pity. Poor Nina! Not content to simply scratch out the name of her faithless beloved, she had bared her soul as a cautionary tale to the entire neighborhood. So young, and yet so brave! And though her heart was broken, I knew she would recover, for hers was the heart of a poet. I slid the dictionary back on the shelf, content in the knowledge that Nina was strong. She would rally, rising Phoenix-like from the ashes of unrequited love. I reached for the phone and called my husband.
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