The prompt this time was to begin with a list of five cities you are familiar with, then to write about one of them.
First on my list was Mexico City, but I also had my inner adolescent on my mind. What I wrote is below.
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My inner adolescent is on the couch reading when I arrive. He looks up as I struggle through the door with my gym bag, school bag, and lunch bag. “Hey, bag lady,” he says. “Need some help?” He’s wearing white socks, tight Levi’s, and a red tank top; with his 30-inch waist and bulging crotch, he looks like a Blue Boy Magazine model: oozing sex and yet totally unsure what to do with it. I ignore his offer, knowing he’s only being polite, and heave my book bag into the corner by the printer. 
“What are you reading?” I ask, bracing myself for his naive criticism. He only likes National Geographic or Vanity Fair. Quite frankly, I’m not in the mood for him today.
“Something called Saveur,” he says, surprising me. “A special edition on Mexican cuisine. Pretty delicious.” His eyes are darker blue, more like Mom’s, and the whites are bright and clear. Young eyes. His hair is curlier than I remember, from getting caught in the rain, perhaps, or a working up a good sweat.
“I’m just wondering why you’re here,” I say, heading to the kitchen to put a kettle on.
“Beats me,” he says, leafing through the magazine, “I figured you needed to see me.”
“Tea?” I ask.
“Gross,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean, no thank you.”
We volley this way sometimes. That lovely boy I once was who plays cynical now, but really lived in a world with a sense of wonder and spontaneity, two things I have to get high or travel 1000’s of miles to tap into now.
“Actually,” he says, “I was wondering when you were going to buy that ticket to Mexico City.”
“You want me to go, is that it?”
“You’re awfully bitchy today,” he says. “I mean, more so than usual.”
I sigh. He sighs.
He looks so earnest. I want to tell him that forty years from now he will sometimes be driving home in the rain so filled with a sense of melancholy that he will want to drive to a bar instead and get good and drunk. That some days, his work will feel like helping countless young people with their whole lives ahead of them, while he feels stuck in his own life, fearful of chronic illness. That he will feel bone-tired.
“Anyway,” he says, “have you bought your ticket yet?”
“I don’t know about Mexico City,” I say.
“Why not? You’ve always wanted to go there: Casa Azul, the museums, and now this hot guy you’ve met online—”
“I don’t think living in a fantasy world is healthy for either of us,” I say. He laughs then, that shotgun laugh we get from Mom.
“Oh, please!” he says. “You’re a writer. We’ve always lived in a fantasy world.”
What could I say in response? He claimed me as a writer, and the kid had a point. Has always had a big heart too. Had no qualms about saying no to dissecting a fetal pig in Biology class because it was “disrespectful to the poor, dead, baby piglet.” (His words exactly.) I knew his love for flowers—roses, jasmine, violets—was a reflection of this big heart, and an attachment to romance.
“What do you have to lose by going to Mexico City?” he asked.
“About $1000,” I said.
“Just charge it then.”
“And my dignity, if I contact that beautiful young man.”
“Your dignity?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking the screaming kettle off the burner. “Once he sees what I actually look like in the flesh, he’ll run for the hills.”
“You underestimate how beautiful you are,” he says.
“So do you,” I say.
“You’re better looking than I am,” he says.
“You just have low self-esteem.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “You need to own it.”
I want to tell him that I only feel beautiful when I put eyedrops in my eyes, when I haven’t eaten very much, when someone I love looks at me and I can see myself through his eyes. Or when I am dancing. But I don’t dare. I don’t want him to feel this kind of sorrow yet. I feel protective of him.
“Oh, I know sorrow,” he says, reading my mind. “I stayed home and took care of our dying mother, remember?”
He’s right, of course. Back then I didn’t have the mindfulness I have now. I didn’t have the vocabulary or the lifelong friendships to talk my way through a bad day, a big worry, or the tug of grief when it came in waves. I have options now; I have the freedom to make my own choices.
“If I meet him in Mexico City,” I say, “it’s probably just going to be a sexual thing. Nothing more.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says. “It’s only $366 round trip if you buy the ticket today.”
We look at each other for a moment, and then he just smiles that big white smile. I want to smack him, but I also want to thank him. Instead, I just smile back.
The Catalyst 