“Tengo novia pero vos me gustas mas.”
If I wasn’t sure that my mystery texter wasn’t talking to me earlier during breakfast when a one-word message arrived from the same number declaring, simply, “Linda,” now I was. Unless I’ve been cross dressing in my sleep, taking the feminine-specific adjective for “pretty,” and possibly flirting with random people who have girlfriends, this was clearly a case of mistaken identity.
Or was it? I met my ex-boyfriend two and a half years ago on a wild Thursday night in Melbourne when he was out with his girlfriend at the time. Was I turning boys again — if it was indeed a guy? And more importantly, did the girlfriend know?
The person refused to reveal who was texting, only that it was “alguien a quien le gustas.” If nothing else, I was talking to someone with a lot of confidence, which might have been sexy if it weren’t for the fact that he (or she) was being so duplicitous with his (or her) girlfriend.
As I started dreaming up storylines for the love triangle — Was I supposed to be a good friend of the girlfriend? Had I already crossed the line? Had I previously been completely oblivious to the fact that this person was into me? Was I getting between a lesbian couple? — I wondered if I should play the role that had been assigned to me, or if I should reveal my true identity. I opted for the latter approach.
“Querrias enviarme a mi eses mensajes? Soy Jeremy, un chico!”
That’s when more true colors started to come out. The mystery texter called me a “puta” (in this context, more or less the Spanish equivalent of “faggot”), as if the fact that he (It had to be a he, right?) had sent me an amorous SMS automatically made me one, and chided me for having the nerve to like boys and “tomar la leche.” In his warped world view, on the list of abhorrent human behavior, being gay (which, apparently to him, also meant that you must drink semen like it’s water) trumped hitting on other women behind your girlfriend’s back.
I decided to let him have the final word. His scale of morality was obviously tilted to the wrong side, and his girlfriend was about to be the biggest loser. It wasn’t any of my business, but I still felt so badly for her. It wasn’t so much that her boyfriend was primed to cheat (guys do that all the time) but that he liked the other woman more — and he was homophobic, his most offensive crime.
On the bright side, she wasn’t the biggest loser at all. He was.