Telenovela Nights | Noches de Telenovela
"Watching dramatic soap operas with her roommate becomes their own passionate drama when fiction inspires reality"
Telenovela Nights
Noches de Telenovela
Every Thursday at 9 PM, Carmen and I had a sacred ritual: La Reina del Sur reruns, homemade margaritas, and enough popcorn to feed a small army.
"¡No puede ser!" Carmen shrieked at the TV, throwing popcorn at the screen. "¿Cómo puede besar a Santiago cuando ama a David?"
"Because Santiago is rich," I said, sipping my drink. "It's always about money in telenovelas."
"No, mija." She shook her head passionately. "It's always about passion. About destiny. About—"
"About dramatic background music?"
She threw popcorn at me instead.
We'd been roommates for two years—ever since she answered my Craigslist ad with a message entirely in Spanish that I'd had to Google translate. She was everything I wasn't: loud where I was quiet, passionate where I was reserved, free with her body in a way I envied.
Right now, she was wearing tiny shorts and a tank top that left nothing to the imagination, her dark curls piled on her head, looking like she'd stepped out of one of her beloved telenovelas.
"You're staring, mami," she said without looking away from the screen.
I nearly choked on my margarita. "No, I wasn't."
"Mentirosa." Liar.
On screen, the leads were having their climactic kiss—all swelling music and dramatic camera angles.
"See?" Carmen sighed dreamily. "That's what I want. That kind of passion. That kind of—"
"Unrealistic expectations?"
She turned to look at me, and something shifted in her dark eyes. "You don't believe in passion?"
"I believe in reality."
"And in reality, no one looks at you like that? No one kisses you like their life depends on it?"
I thought about my last three relationships—comfortable, predictable, passionless. "No."
"Qué triste." How sad. She scooted closer on the couch. "Everyone deserves to be kissed like that at least once."
"Have you?" I asked, my voice strange. "Been kissed like that?"
"Once." Her eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. "But not by the person I wanted."
The air between us changed. The TV kept playing, forgotten.
"Carmen..."
"I've wanted to tell you something for a long time," she said softly. "But I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of losing our Thursday nights. Our margaritas. You." She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're my best friend."
"I don't want to lose you either," I whispered.
"Then don't."
When she kissed me, it was nothing like the telenovelas—it was better. No swelling music, no dramatic angles, just her mouth soft and tasting like lime and salt, her hands gentle on my face.
"We should stop," she breathed against my lips.
"Do you want to?"
"Dios, no." She pulled me closer. "I've wanted this for two years."
"Two years?"
"Every Thursday, sitting next to you, pretending to watch TV when all I could think about was this." She kissed me again, deeper. "You. Always you."
We never made it past the couch that first time. She pulled me onto her lap, and I learned that Carmen kissed exactly like she lived—passionately, completely, holding nothing back.
"Touch me," she demanded. "Por favor, mi amor, I've waited so long."
My hands slid under her tank top, finding warm skin and curves I'd fantasized about without admitting it even to myself.
"You're beautiful," I said.
"So are you." She pulled my shirt over my head. "I've wanted to see you like this forever."
"Forever is a long time."
"Not long enough."
We made love with the telenovela playing in the background, dramatic music scoring our gasps and sighs. Carmen was vocal—praising, directing, demanding.
"Así, mami, así..."
"Right there, don't stop..."
"Mírame. Look at me when you—ah, Dios mío..."
When she came, she said my name like a prayer, and something in my chest cracked open.
After, she pulled a blanket over us both and curled into my side.
"So," she said. "Was that passionate enough for you?"
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
I did. I loved her ridiculous telenovela obsession, her dramatic reactions to everything, the way she made even grocery shopping feel like an adventure.
"Te quiero," I said quietly. I love you.
She went still against me. "Say it again."
"Te quiero, Carmen."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes shining. "I've imagined you saying that so many times. It's better than I dreamed."
"You dreamed about me?"
"Every night." She kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips. "Every single night."
"What happens now?"
"Now?" She grinned. "Now we still have Thursday nights, but better. Now I get to kiss you whenever I want. Now—"
"Now we're our own telenovela?"
"Exactly." She pulled me in for another kiss. "And this one has a happy ending."
Thursdays changed after that. We still watched telenovelas, but we watched them tangled together, pausing for kisses during commercials, reenacting the dramatic scenes with laughter and passion.
"I love you," Carmen would say every night before we fell asleep. "Te amo más que todas las estrellas."
More than all the stars. My dramatic, ridiculous, perfect roommate.
"I love you too," I'd say back. "Even when you throw popcorn at the TV."
"Especially when I throw popcorn at the TV."
She was right, as always. Passion wasn't unrealistic.
I just hadn't been looking in the right place.