Emergency Contact

At a wooden table carved with wolves and cacti, surrounded by tacky Mexican beach paintings, a basket of chips and chunky salsa, I cried last night.  Daniel and I had enjoyed a leisurely bike ride down to the new Wednesday farmer's market in the marina.  A mellow market ripe with peaches, plums, and avocados but also oodles of prepared foods.  BBQ and berry cobbler, whole pineapples filled with smoothies, Mexican corn cobs smothered in spicy parmesan and mayo, crepes oozing nutella, and two hungry bikers inhaling deeply.  Tucked away near the smooth water and shaded eating area was Lionel.  A flask of French anise liquor recently delivered from his flock; his wife, Mara waving from the mega-van which held the energetic Emiliana and Diega, his pyramids of cookies, scones, and organic granola deepening our hunger pains.

We decided to stick to the plan and enjoy our first meal down the street at the oft-lauded Enrique's.  Ice-cold Bohemias and a thick spicy salsa woke up my palette and then a scrumptious shredded chicken and rice soup mellowed my raging hunger.  Our waiter emphatically praised the pork shank with tomatillo sauce, so we waited patiently for this house special.  Although I have turned in my vegetarian membership card of fifteen years, I still bit my lip when this hot platter descended on the table with a gigantic pig leg.  Skin glistening and tender flesh collapsing from the bones into the smooth roasted tomatillo sauce.  It was a succulent meal and one that I didn't think would end with me crying.

My fork was idling in the pool of sauce, taking that deep breath that half-consumed Mexican meals beg you to take, when Daniel mentioned his job.  We started meandering through various topics related to his current and future career and for some reason I asked him about his emergency contact.  He looked up from his forkful of Spanish rice and said simply, "You."  His eyes shifted back to his rice as if nothing monumental had occurred.  To me, it was as if the sunset blasted through the cheesy thatched roof, splashing vibrant light onto our desert scape table.  I was someone's Emergency Contact.  My full name, in Daniel's engineer scratch, scrawled on HR paperwork and squeezed in some ginormous filing cabinet under lock and key.  I felt so special and my eyes immediately filled with tears.  Daniel looked up, chewing his pork shank, and looked puzzled.  I explained that I had simply never been someone's Emergency Contact and that this meant something to me.  Tears began to gather and spill over the sides of my eyes, I wiped them quickly and just stared at him.  He smiled.

"I love our life, " said I.

"We'll have a GREAT life," said he.

And then the pork-bellied bikers rode home.