Bodega Romance

Romance de la Bodega

Every night at midnight, I went to Rodriguez's Bodega for my coffee and lottery ticket. Every night, Marisol was behind the counter.

"El usual, papi?" she'd ask, already reaching for my brand.

"You know me too well."

"You're predictable." But she'd smile when she said it, and that smile was worth the walk in the cold.

Marisol had moved from Santo Domingo three years ago to help her father run the shop. She spoke English with an accent that turned every word into music and Spanish so fast I could barely keep up despite my college minor.

Tonight, she was restocking platanos when I walked in.

"Llegas tarde," she said without turning. You're late.

"How did you know it was me?"

"You always pause at the door like you're building courage." She turned, and her smile hit me like always. "¿Qué necesitas esta noche?"

You, I thought. I need you.

"Coffee," I said. "And maybe some of those cheese empanadas if you have any left."

"Last two." She retrieved them from the warmer. "You're lucky."

"I know."

Something in my tone made her pause. Our fingers brushed when she handed me the bag.

"Carlos," she said softly. "Why do you come here every night?"

"Insomnia. The coffee helps."

"At midnight? Coffee helps you sleep?" She raised an eyebrow. "Try again."

"Fine." I leaned against the counter. "I come to see you. Happy now?"

"Very." Her smile widened. "I've been waiting months for you to admit that."

"Months?"

"You think I don't notice things? How you only come during my shifts? How you take forever to choose what you already know you want?" She leaned closer across the counter. "I see everything, papi."

"Then what else do you see?"

"That you're scared." Her hand covered mine. "But you don't have to be."

"Your father's in the back," I said weakly.

"My father's been trying to set me up with his friend's sons for three years. He'd be thrilled if I found someone myself." She came around the counter, standing close enough that I could smell her perfume—vanilla and something tropical. "The question is, what do you want?"

"You," I admitted. "I want you."

"Then take me on a proper date. Tomorrow night. Pick me up at eight."

"Where should I take you?"

"Surprise me." She kissed my cheek, her lips warm and soft. "But tonight, stay. Help me stock shelves. Talk to me."

I stayed until 3 AM, passing her cans and boxes while she told me about the Dominican Republic—the beaches, the bachata clubs, the grandmother who'd taught her to cook.

"I miss it sometimes," she admitted. "The warmth. The music everywhere. The way everyone knows everyone."

"Washington Heights isn't warm enough?"

"It's different." She shelved the last can. "But it has things Santo Domingo didn't have."

"Like what?"

"You." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "It has you."

Our first date was at a tiny Dominican restaurant in the Bronx that her cousin owned. We ate mofongo and sancocho while her cousin kept bringing us free drinks and winking at Marisol.

"She's not subtle," Marisol groaned.

"I like her."

"She's already planning our wedding."

"Is that a warning or a promise?"

Marisol laughed, nearly choking on her beer. "You're not supposed to say things like that on a first date."

"We've known each other for six months. This isn't really a first date."

After dinner, we walked along the river, and she told me more—about her dreams of opening her own restaurant, about the recipes she'd inherited from her abuela, about how tired she was of being seen as just the bodega girl.

"You're not just anything," I said, stopping under a streetlight. "You're everything."

"You don't even know me yet."

"I know you sing when you think no one's listening. I know you give free candy to the kids who can't afford it. I know you learned every regular's name within a week." I cupped her face in my hands. "I know you're extraordinary, Marisol. Let me prove it to you."

She kissed me first—bold, confident, sure. Her arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me down to her level.

"I've been wanting to do that for six months," she breathed.

"Was it worth the wait?"

"Ask me again later." She kissed me again. "When I have more data."

We collected a lot of data that night—on her apartment rooftop with the city glittering below us, in her small bedroom with bachata playing softly from her phone.

"Stay," she said after, her head on my chest. "My father doesn't need to know."

"And if he finds out?"

"Then we tell him you're my boyfriend." She propped herself up to look at me. "If that's what you want."

"I want everything, Marisol. Boyfriend, partner, whatever you need me to be."

"Good." She kissed my shoulder. "Because I don't do casual. I'm a serious woman."

"I know. It's one of the things I love about you."

She went still. "Love?"

"Too soon?"

"No." Her smile was sunrise bright. "Just right."

"Te amo," I said, practicing the words I'd rehearsed. "I love you, Marisol Rodriguez."

"Te amo también, mi amor." She pulled me close again. "Now stop talking and show me."

I did. All night, and every night after.

Her father found out three weeks later when he caught me leaving at 6 AM. I expected anger.

Instead, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Finally. She's been talking about you for months. Treats on the house for life, mijo."

Marisol appeared behind him, mortified. "Papi!"

"What? He makes my daughter happy. That makes him family." He handed me a coffee. "Now go. I need her for inventory."

I still go to Rodriguez's Bodega every night. But now I walk behind the counter, kiss my wife, and help stock shelves until closing.

"El usual, papi?" she still asks, even though we've been married three years.

"You know me too well."

"I know you perfectly." She hands me coffee and steals a kiss. "That's why you married me."

"One of many reasons."

"Name them all."

I do—every night, in every way I can.

That's bodega romance. Sweet, simple, and forever.