He sits in the living room. My nephews stare at him for a few minutes. I see him smile and wave at both of them. They turn around and continue to watch Yankee Doodle Andy. I sit at the opposite end of our long, peach-colored sofa. I ask him if my directions were clear. He says they were. He can tell that I am nervous because I keep pulling on my earring. He smiles and tells me to relax.

My brothers and my sisters-in-law return from the market with bags of groceries. My brother Martin carries a 12-pack of beer in his hand. I introduce them to my friend. My brother Beto offers him a beer. He politely declines.

The menudo is ready and everyone sits at the dinner table to eat. My three nieces come in from the back and their mother tells them to say hello to my guest.

My mother serves my brothers and their wives big bowls of menudo. She turns and asks how much she should serve my boyfriend. I tell her to serve him a generous portion.

She serves me a small bowl with only a few pieces of hominy and a flour tortilla on the side. Everything is quiet while we eat with our heads hovering over our bowls. Only the sound of our spoons gently tapping the sides of our porcelain bowls breaks the silence. And there is really no need for anyone to say or to ask anything at all.

Later I will go to my boyfriend's house. I will take him a bowl of menudo and three flour tortillas wrapped in aluminum foil. We will sit in front of the television, hold hands and talk about the future -- a house tucked somewhere down a quiet, narrow street with a huge tree in front whose roots have broken through the concrete sidewalk, forcing it up like a camel's hump. We will talk about the photos gathering gray beards of dust that will crowd the top of our television set.

In the center will be the copy of my father's photo in the silver frame bought by my sister.

That night I will watch my boyfriend eat his menudo, leaving a red, swirly film at the bottom of the giant bowl. I will sit silently, listening to the easy, rhythmic sound of spoon hitting against bowl, knowing very well what is going into each careful tap. Knowing now, after all this time, what each one is trying to tell me in its own, simple way.

That night, I will listen.

I will hear the sound of my father's voice. I will hear my mother telling me to stop being such a picky eater and to learn to be more like my brothers. I will hear my boyfriend's love as he finishes his bowl, wipes his mouth, sighs and places his head gently on my stomach. It will be that easy. That simple.

I come home late at night, when the house is dark and thick with tranquillity, with my boyfriend's scent lingering faintly around my neck and fingernails.

I creep into my mother's room, remove the soft pink blanket from her face and gently kiss her pasty cheek.

Before I close the door, I hear her wake up and ask in a muffled voice what time it is. She asks where I have been.

I tell her I was with my friend.

She asks if he liked the menudo, if he ate it all.

I tell her he liked it. I tell her he ate it all.

"You are always alone," she says. "When are you going to bring a nice girl home? Doesn't your friend have a girlfriend? A wife?"

"No," I say softly, in the same voice I used as a kid whenever I knew I was in trouble. "He loves me, Ma. We love each other."

She pretends not to hear me. She clears her throat. She makes the sign of the cross and goes back to bed.

I stand there quietly with nothing left to say. I step out of the room and close the door behind me.

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