I don’t know what I’m doing here.

“Querresarroz.”

Her accent is so thick I’ve given up trying to understand what she says. My mind hurts decoding her Brazilian wrought Spanish. She repeats, more demanding.

“¿Quieres arroz?”

She motioned towards the ten-kilo sack of rice. Arroz. Rice. Right.

“No. No tengo hambre.”

I am wrapped in her no-longer white robe. It’s too short for me. I pull it over my blue knees. They are still cold. I stare at the bullseye spray-painted next to the broken window. I wonder if the window broke before or after it was painted. My skin is dark next to the robe. It is light next to hers.

“Si, tu quieres arroz. Tienes hambre.”

I do? I am? I am too tired to fight her. I shrug, universal sign for I don’t give a fuck lady, do what you want.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

She lights the stove with a flaming scrap of paper, the gas ignites and flares blue with a gasp. Her small twisted hands scrub the loose-handled wok in the broken sink that hangs off the wall. The water is cold, the heater is broken. It will never run hot. I need a shower.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Her hands shock me because they are ugly and she is beautiful. Twenty-eight years they have clawed their way across continents to arrive here in this broken apartment. I look at my hands, deceptively soft. The calluses disappeared with the absence of a manual life. They are academic hands. Inkstained. Fingertips supple to the frets of a guitar. The top joint of the third finger of my left hand carries the impression of a pen gripped too tightly. I should be writing.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

She murmurs things to me as I stare out the broken window. I nod. I’m not paying attention. She was my distraction and now I’m distracted. The arroz is frying in oil and spices; it smells like land near the equator. I listen to the language of the grain cracking, blooming in the heat. It says Brazil is like where I’m from. Pick mangoes on the side of the road and sleep on the beach under the slowly rotating galaxies. We are nomads, freezing in the Northern countries. We huddle for warmth chafing our arms and legs like flint. There is no flame but the fire of whiskey in our bellies.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

“Ahora, el agua.”

She adds water from a saucepan as I watch from my perch against the kitchen wall. I don’t know what I’m sitting on. The table in front of me is dirty. I sniff the air and try to say something that expresses my appreciation for the smell of the cooking rice. I don’t know the word for smell, or taste, or delicious.

“Es bueno por la nariz,” tapping my nose.

She laughs. She’s laughing at me. She doesn’t know me. Can’t know me. We don’t speak the same language, not even close. I want to tell her I can make words dance. I want to show her what I can do with tricks and turns of language and letter. I hate my incompetence. She treats me like a child. I don’t want to be mocked.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

It's not her fault I can't speak Spanish or Portuguese, or she English. I don't know how to tell her that words matter, that something like this needs to be narrated by more than our body language. Its what I do. I don't know how to say I'm sorry, I was wrong. Forgive me. She is telling me I should stay in Barcelona. You can live here she says. Free. Excuse me? I've known her for two days and already she has discussed marriage and living together. I'm already relationship phobic with deep seated problems rooted in early childhood abandonment and mother issues. Is this necessary?

I don't know what I'm still doing here.